


miscellaneous

by cautiouslyoptimistic



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-31
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-05 18:55:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 74,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25620208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cautiouslyoptimistic/pseuds/cautiouslyoptimistic
Summary: or, a series of prompt fills
Relationships: Clarke Griffin/Lexa
Comments: 90
Kudos: 351





	1. gnomes

**Author's Note:**

> hello! just a friendly psa: this is a repost of loads of prompt fills I did back in the day as transientpermanence/theahhamoment. you're more than welcome to send me new prompts @c-optimistic
> 
> and fun fact: this first one isn't the first fic I wrote for clexa, but it's my favorite

“I don’t care if the whole neighborhood has garden gnomes, we’re _not_ having them.” Clarke blinks, taking off her jacket with a little more force than strictly necessary, and turns to Lexa with a frustrated sigh.

“You’re being difficult on purpose. Why not just blend in with the neighbors?”

“I don’t want to blend in. Garden gnomes are a ridiculous affront to front lawns. They should be banned immediately.” She watches in silence as Lexa heads to their kitchen, obviously intent on making herself her ‘calming tea,’ her preferred drink for whenever Clarke ‘was being difficult.’

“I think you may be overreacting,” she finally mutters, wishing she wasn’t at least partially amused by Lexa’s vehement hatred of garden gnomes. Lexa stares at her, her hands on her hips, her lips curled in distaste.

“Overreacting? Have you _seen_ them? With their pointy hats and their silly, most likely _evil_ grins? Their existence is pointless. And I don’t want them.”

“I thought you said marriage was about compromise.”

“Thanks, Clarke. I do _so_ love it when you use my own words against me so that you can have your own way _._ ” Clarke takes a deep breath, trying to quell the sudden urge to smack her head against the wall (or more accurately, the wall that was her wife).

“This is not a big deal, they’re just _garden gnomes_.”

“Well, if it’s not a big deal then why don’t you give up on the idea?”

“Because the whole neighborhood has them, Lexa! We’re moving into our first house, don’t you want our neighbors to like us?”

“I don’t particularly care, no.” Clarke closes her eyes and counts to ten in her head, needing to keep her annoyance under control. Lexa’s tea, however, isn’t ready yet, so she continues to rant. “It’s not like they can stop us from moving in because we refused to have garden gnomes. Besides, if the presence of fucking _garden gnomes_ , or lack thereof, is used as some sort of determining factor of how well we’re liked, then I’m not entirely sure I want to be liked by these people anyway.” The kettle begins to whistle and Lexa sighs, shaking her head as she busies herself with preparing her cup of tea. “Garden gnomes. Honestly,” she mutters to herself at one point, shaking her head.

“Are you done?” Clarke asks after a minute of silence, watching Lexa take careful sips of her tea.

“For now.”

“I like them, Lexa,” Clarke says softly, giving up on outright arguing and settling on a different tactic. “I think they’re cute.” Lexa’s shoulders stiffen, but her nose wrinkles in dislike.

“You have horrible taste,” she says primly, her eyes wary over her teacup, watching Clarke step closer.

“I married you.”

“Like I said, horrible taste.” Clarke is so close that she can smell the tea on Lexa’s breath, feel the hot steam from the cup as Lexa sets it on the countertop, her eyes still wary and never wavering from Clarke’s. “I know what you’re doing,” she says, “and though it may look like it’s working, it’s not.” Her eyes flick down to Clarke’s lips before focusing once more on her eyes. “It’s _not_ ,” she repeats firmly, clearly trying to remind herself of that fact.

“I have _no_ idea what you’re talking about,” Clarke says, trapping Lexa between the counter and herself, her arms on either side of her wife. “It’s just, this is the last week we’ll ever spend in this apartment, and I thought we should celebrate.” But as she leans in for the kiss (totally forgetting why she’d wanted to be so close to Lexa in the first place, all thoughts of garden gnomes and arguments thrown out of the window), Lexa actually _ducks_ under her arm and takes several frantic steps back, her eyes wide.

“Raven and Octavia are coming to help us pack tomorrow. We’ll need a good night’s sleep to deal with them,” she says, swallowing hard. Without another word, she turns her back and slips into their bedroom, leaving Clarke in the kitchen with a barely touched cup of tea.

xxx

“I’m telling you, she was _weird_ ,” Clarke says, handing Octavia a bottle of water. The girl takes it gratefully and drinks greedily before collapsing onto the ground next to several packed boxes, shrugging.

“On a scale of ‘Lexa wanting to ask you out for the first time’ to ‘Lexa when high,’ how weird?” she asks. Clarke smiles fondly at the memory of Lexa when she was on morphine after having her appendix removed. She’d never been as verbally affectionate as she’d been that night… “Clarke?”

“I dunno. Probably somewhere around ‘Lexa meeting you and Raven for the first time’ weird.”

“Oh. Huh. That’s pretty bad.”

“Yeah.”

“Did she talk to you this morning?”

“Other than to say bye? No.” At Octavia’s look, Clarke quickly clarifies. “It was early. She just kissed me and left, she does that a lot. She hates waking me up.”

“You mean you hate it when she wakes you up.”

“Yeah, that too.”

“Maybe she had a traumatic thing involving garden gnomes when she was a kid.”

“You’d think she’d just say that, though. Besides, how can _garden gnomes_ be traumatic?” Octavia shrugs again.

“Who knows? But Bellamy is terrified of teddy bears.”

“Is that why he hates Lincoln?” Octavia rolls her eyes.

“Oh ha ha,” she deadpans, throwing her now empty bottle of water at Clarke’s head. “How much do you want to bet that she’s ranting to Raven right now?” Clarke sighs, moving so that she’s sitting next to Octavia.

“I think she’d get Raven in the divorce.”

“Yeah, she would.”

“Raven’s a fucking traitor.”

“Because she won’t tell you anything Lexa tells her?” Octavia says with a laugh, bumping her shoulder with Clarke’s. “It’s your own fault for marrying someone we all like.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“And this gnome thing will blow over, Clarke. Don’t worry.” Clarke bites her lip, unsure, but she nods anyway.

xxx

She thought inviting Octavia and Raven over for dinner would help diffuse the tension, but if anything, Lexa looks more tense than she did last night. They’re sitting on the ground, surrounded by their packed up belongings, boxes of pizza littering the floor. Clarke gives Raven a significant look, a look her best friend (soon to be ex-best friend) dutifully ignores, choosing instead to offer Lexa another slice of pizza. When Lexa gives her a curt shake of the head, Raven lets out a dramatic sigh.

“Shit, I can’t do this.”

“Do what?” Clarke asks the second Lexa begins shaking her head vehemently.

“Clarke, I have a confession.” Raven pauses, looking at Lexa for a moment before turning back to Clarke with a melancholy expression. Octavia begins to snigger. “I spent all afternoon freaking Lexa out with pictures of zombie garden gnomes.”

“You didn’t freak me out. I said, and I quote, ‘better these affronts to nature than the normal ones.’” Clarke blinks, her mouth falling open.

“You’d rather have _zombie_ garden gnomes on the front lawn of our _home_ than just fucking normal ones? What’s wrong with you?”

“What’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with you? At least zombies are different! And they perfectly encapsulate how _stupid_ having garden gnomes in the front of your house is. I mean, right?” She looks to Raven and Octavia, searching for support, which Raven all too happily gives. Octavia giggles a little more before giving Clarke an apologetic look.

“You said you wanted a compromise, Clarke. Well here it is.” 

“I’m not putting zombie garden gnomes in front of our house!”

“But—” Clarke shakes her head, not allowing Lexa to speak.

“Why can’t you give me this one thing? I mean, especially something so stupid?” Lexa blinks, her shoulders falling, looking positively deflated, before she lets out a sigh and gives Clarke a stiff smile.

“We’re out of wine. I think I’ll go buy some.” She pointedly ignores the nearly full bottle right in front of her and gets to her feet, forgetting her coat in her haste to leave the apartment. Clarke makes to go after her, but Raven shakes her head.

“I got this.” Without bothering to listen to Clarke’s protests, she’s gone (Lexa’s coat in hand), and Clarke is left sitting with Octavia, staring blankly at the spot Lexa just vacated.

“So the gnome thing was a little more serious than we anticipated,” Octavia says, falsely cheery. “Still think it’ll blow over soon.”

xxx

Despite Octavia’s assurances, it doesn’t blow over soon.

Lexa isn’t _mad_ , at least, Clarke doesn’t think so. She’s just as normal as ever. But the second Clarke mentions their new home, she stiffens, as if she’s anticipating an attack. Clarke allows this behavior for two days before she has enough.

“Will you just tell me your problem?” she demands, rinsing out her mouth and following Lexa into bed. Lexa plays with the covers for a moment before she turns onto her side, and even in the darkness, Clarke feels like she can see her wife’s green eyes (she can’t, not at all, but somehow imagining Lexa’s eyes makes her feel better about the rigid body next to her).

“I don’t like gnomes, Clarke,” Lexa says curtly.

“Yeah, but _why_?”

“I don’t have a reason. I just don’t like them.”

“That’s not a thing. You have to have a reason. Octavia says it could be a childhood trauma. Did you trip over a garden gnome as a toddler or something?” This makes Lexa laugh, and Clarke feels all her worry evaporate, because Lexa’s arms wrap around her waist, pulling her closer (nothing at all like the distant Lexa of the past few days).

“There was a distinct lack of garden gnomes in the neighborhood I grew up in. It’s why I liked it so much.” She whispers that last part, her lips close to Clarke’s ear, and Clarke presses even closer to Lexa, utterly tired of the arguing.

“I wish you’d tell me why you hate gnomes so much,” she says with a yawn, ignoring Lexa’s chuckle. “We’re starting out somewhere new, a home and neighborhood where no one knows us, and I just want to make a good first impression.” Lexa doesn’t pull away, but her body is so tense that she may as well have. “Yeah, I know,” Clarke mutters, pulling away and turning over, so that her back is to Lexa. “Who cares what the gnome-loving people think, right?” Lexa doesn’t respond.

The next morning, when Clarke wakes up, Lexa isn’t in bed (a normal occurrence). It takes a minute for her to remember the significant silence from the night before, and she suddenly realizes that Lexa left without even a kiss.

xxx

“On a scale of ‘the time I ruined your shoes’ to ‘the time I outed you to your ailing grandmother on accident,’ how angry are you over this gnome thing?” Lexa straightens, giving up trying to force yet another box into their car, and stares at Clarke with confusion.

“You ruined my shoes?”

“Answer the question, Lexa.”

“I’m not angry at all.” Clarke snorts, and Lexa takes this as a challenge because she looks much more earnest. “I’m _serious_. I’m not angry.”

“You didn’t kiss me yesterday before you left for work.”

“I didn’t think you wanted me to.”

“I always want you to.”

“You turned away, though.”

“Because you’re being all distant and mopey about the gnomes, and you won’t tell me why! This is a new chapter in our life, and you’ve reverted to the Lexa from five years ago.” Lexa stares at Clarke for a moment, something in her eyes changing. She’s not angry, not really, but she looks _fierce_. Without bothering to say a single word, she stalks over to Clarke, grabs her hand, and practically drags her up the stairs, releasing her only when they reach their now empty apartment.

“This,” Lexa says, her voice low but passionate, pointing at a dent in the wall, “is where Octavia threw a bowl of chips after her team lost the Super Bowl.” She turns and points to a deep scratch on the wooden floor, near their bedroom door. “That’s where we tried to drag your dresser in, when we first moved in together, and it wasn’t until Bellamy got a few other people to come by and help that we were able to lift it and save our floor.” She takes Clarke’s hand again, pulling her near the kitchen counter. “This, this right here is where I proposed to you, while you were eating breakfast, and cereal literally spewed out of your mouth onto my face because you were in such a hurry to say yes.” She pulls Clarke over to where their table used to sit, but before she can open her mouth, Clarke speaks for her.

“This is where we had our first game night, and Raven kicked everyone’s ass at poker and we swore we’d never play with her again.” She walks over to where their couch used to be, smiling slightly. “And this was where I played video games with Bellamy, getting so excited that I accidentally punched him in the mouth, knocking out a tooth, and you spent two hours trying to scrub out the blood.” Clarke sighs, turning to look at Lexa with a sad smile. “This place is full of memories, Lexa. I know that. What does it have to do with gnomes?”

“Nothing. It has _nothing_ to do with gnomes.”

“Then why… _oh_.” Clarke’s grin widens, and she steps over to her wife, hooking her fingers through the belt loops of Lexa’s pants, pulling her closer. “You’re going to _miss_ this place _. That’s_ why you’ve been so surly and weird. Not because of the gnomes.” Clarke says, raising an eyebrow, dangerously close to snorting. Lexa huffs.

“Garden gnomes are ridiculous and pointless and everything I said was _valid_ and _true_.” She softens considerably, pressing her forehead against Clarke’s, a small smile pulling on her lips. “I just…I thought…” She trails off again, and Clarke takes pity on her, finishing her sentence for her.

“You wanted to make a memory. And what better memory than pissing off all the neighbors?” Lexa rolls her eyes, pulling away slightly so that she can dig through her pocket. After a second, she holds out a _garden gnome_ keychain, making Clarke snort.

“Raven bought me this, told me to use it to get over my ‘unnatural fear and aversion’ of the gnomes.”

“She’d totally choose you in the divorce,” Clarke mutters, but Lexa just grins, not even bothering to acknowledge the comment.

“So compromise. We hang this on our door.”

“A garden gnome keychain?”

“Why not?”

“What’s wrong with a normal garden gnome?” Lexa grins, closing the distance between them and giving Clarke a quick kiss.

“Clarke,” she says softly as she pulls away, “they’re an affront to nature. They’re not going on our lawn.”

“Dammit, Lexa, they’re just _gnomes_. What’d they ever do to you?”

“They exist! Isn’t that enough?”

“But you’re okay with them if they’re zombies,” Clarke mutters, ignoring Lexa’s laughter, trying her best to quell her own smile.

They argue as they go back downstairs, hand in hand., argue in the car as they drive towards their new home, and argue when they finally arrive and the first thing Lexa does is to chuck the garden gnome keychain at the lawn, gleefully shouting, “There you go, Clarke! We’ve got gnomes on our yard!” But later, Lexa presses a kiss to Clarke’s temple, a grin on her face. “Our first memory at our new house: arguing over garden gnomes.” 

“I can’t believe I married you,” Clarke mutters, watching Lexa’s grin grow.

“Told you. _Horrible_ taste.”


	2. going grounder

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact: isn't it great now you can get the whole thing at once rather than wait for me to finish it? silver lining? maybe?

It’s a year before they see her again.

Actually, he’s not totally sure about that. Since landing on the ground, no one seems to quite care about keeping track of days and months, just the passing of seasons. All he knows it that they go through an icy winter (during which Jasper pretended he didn’t exist), a wet spring (during which Jasper opted for angry glares and sharp comments over the silent treatment), a scorching summer (during which Jasper got drunk several nights in a row, and told him that he was a murderer, that Maya was dead because of _him_ and _her_ and how does that feel?), and a dry fall (during which Jasper picked fights as often as he could because he knew Monty would back down, filled with guilt) before she’s spotted emerging from the trees. 

The first thing Monty does is run to her and hug her as tightly as he can.

He can tell she’s surprised by the show of affection because she stiffens and it takes her several seconds to return the hug, but when she finally does return it, the hug is tight and full of a warmth it lacked when they had returned from Mount Weather.

“How are you?” she whispers to him, looking at him in concern as the others hurry towards them. He shrugs slightly, and instead of answering, gestures to her clothes.

“You went Grounder,” he says, grinning to take away the bite of his words. She laughs, and Monty is surprised it isn’t forced.

“Yeah, well, I’ve had a hell of a year.” He looks at her carefully, at the way her eyes search him hungrily (as if she _needed_ proof that he was alive), and he decides not to ask about her year. Whatever happened, it’s clear Clarke has managed to heal somewhat.

Which is more than he can say about himself.

“So’ve we,” he says as the others—Bellamy, Raven, Monroe, Harper, Miller, and Octavia—finally reach them. Clarke spares him a grin before she allows herself to be distracted by Raven’s tight hug—“We thought you’d _died,_ Clarke. You couldn’t have bothered with a damn letter or something, huh?”—and Bellamy’s progress report—“Food’s been hard to find, and the Grounders have been awfully unhelpful, but not violent. Your mom wanted to use Mount Weather’s supplies but none of our people were exactly comfortable with the idea, after everything that happened there.” (No one tells Bellamy to shut up, that it’s clearly not the time, because they know this is how he expresses how glad he is that she’s back). But they all fall silent when Octavia pushes them aside and stares at Clarke.

“You’re back,” she says flatly, her eyes flicking over Clarke’s new clothes.

That’s when she launches herself at Clarke.

Before any of them know what’s going on, Octavia has landed several punches and Clarke’s got a bloody nose. Before Harper gasps and Raven yells for them to stop, Clarke rams into Octavia and slams her into the ground, returning the favor. By the time Bellamy and Miller come to their senses and separate the two girls, Clarke and Octavia are breathing heavily, bruises already blossoming, blood everywhere.

“What the _hell_?” Bellamy demands, glaring at the two of them. But Octavia is grinning madly and Clarke has a crazed gleam in her eye.

“Let go of me, Miller,” Clarke says, struggling against his grip. He immediately does as she says, his eyes wide—like he’s afraid he’ll get the same treatment as Octavia.

“Yeah, Bell. Let me go,” Octavia mutters. “I won’t hit the Princess again.” Clarke flinches at the old nickname, but she holds Octavia’s gaze. This isn’t the Clarke Monty remembers—the Clarke that was broken and full of guilt (like him).

This Clarke is _alive_. Defiant.

“If you did hit me, I’d just return the favor,” Clarke says, her eyes narrowing. Bellamy holds his hands up.

“There isn’t a need for anyone to hit _anyone_ ,” he says, giving his sister an exasperated look. He then turns to Clarke. “You went Grounder?” Raven snorts.

“That’s the understatement of the year. She’s turned into a second Octavia.” Monroe laughs but the others just stare blankly at Octavia and Clarke, waiting for one of them to react. They don’t have to wait long; Octavia straightens and looks at Clarke carefully.

“ _Chek au_ ,” she says, and Clarke’s eyes harden momentarily. “ _Nou get yu daun raun fotaim._ ” For a second, Clarke says nothing, and Monty wonders if he was wrong, if she didn’t go Grounder after all and, like the rest of them, has no idea what Octavia just said. But then, a grin spreads on her face and she reaches out to hug Octavia, who returns the hug happily.

“ _Mochof_ ,” she says, the word coming out desperately, _gratefully,_ and Monty doesn’t need to know the Grounder language to know something good just happened. _“Ai don gaf sen em in.”_ He doesn’t want to interrupt the moment Clarke and Octavia seem to be having, but he knows he has no choice.

“Your mom will want to see you, Clarke,” he says.

“Not just Abby. Everyone will be glad you’re back,” Harper scoffs, grinning. “You’re kind of a hero.” Raven snorts again.

“Okay, I’ll ask it if no one else will. Where’ve you _been_ , Clarke? And why come back now?” They all look at her expectantly, Bellamy pressing his lips together tightly, as if he was trying to keep from saying something. Clarke, though, just looks uncomfortable.

“I was in Polis, actually,” she says, though that only has meaning for Octavia, whose mouth falls open slightly. “And I’m here because I know about how hard things have been. I’ve managed to convince the Coalition to establish trading with our people.”

“Did you convince the Coalitionor the Commander?” Octavia asks. Her words are without bite, they’re practically teasing—even Monty can tell that much. But Clarke’s eyes darken, and she looks _defensive_.

“Lexa _is_ the Coalition,” she says, looking at the others like she’s daring them to argue. “And she’s doing her best to do right by us.”

“A little late for that, isn’t it?” Miller asks, though he takes several steps back when Clarke glares at him.

“She did what she _had_ to,” Clarke says. “To save her people.”

“At the expense of ours!” Miller shoots back, and Clarke draws herself up to her full height—intimidating despite the fact it was barely over five feet.

“Did you ever stop to consider that _you’ve_ made mistakes too? I _told_ you it was too good to be true. But you and Jasper didn’t believe me. You told me I was being ungrateful.” Miller looks away, but Clarke doesn’t look like she’s done. It suddenly occurs to Monty that though she was willing to do _anything_ for her people—to save them, protect them, keep them alive—it didn’t mean she didn’t hold grudges against them. It didn’t mean she wasn’t _angry_. “You should’ve had faith in me, should have believed in me. But when it came down to it, you chose comfort and ease over the person who was willing to do anything to keep you alive.” She turns away from Miller and looks at the rest of them, her eyes softening somewhat. “She may have left us there to die, but she did it because her people come first. Not because she didn’t have faith in me. She trusted me, listened to me. And that’s more than I can say about some of you.” She doesn’t wait to see if anyone will respond. Instead, she turns and walks towards Camp Jaha.

After a second, Monty races after her.

xxx

It takes a few days, but Bellamy decides that the new Clarke is the same as the old Clarke. She’s just as hard, just as smart, and just as strong. The only difference between old and new Clarke seems to have perfect control over her emotions (much like Octavia).

Old Clarke wore her heart on her sleeve; new Clarke has walls and shields galore, keeping her heart secure.

Bellamy noticed it for the first time when Jasper saw her, his mouth falling open in surprise before he remembered he was supposed to be awful, and he used one of the same insults he lobbed at Monty or Bellamy on a regular basis. But while Monty tended to ignore his best friend and Bellamy usually flashed him a warning look, Clarke met his eyes steadily. “Grow up, Jasper,” she told him coldly, her features blank. “We’ve all lost people we loved.”

“The only reason those people are dead is because of _you_. Finn, Maya, and everyone else who helped us. Gone because of _you!_ ” Bellamy had wanted to step forward, to stop another fight like the one Clarke had with Octavia, but he was frozen. He expected to see pain on Clarke’s face. To see the guilt that plagued her when she left Camp Jaha. Instead, all he saw was a blank look.

“You’re right. It _was_ because of me. Does that make you feel better?” Jasper—unused to this tactic—had gone silent, and Clarke stepped away, going off to discuss something or other with Octavia and Raven.

It wasn’t until a night later, when he overheard Lincoln and Octavia discuss the former’s nightmares dispassionately, that Bellamy connected the dots.

Old Clarke wore her heart on her sleeve because she was one of them. New Clarke kept her heart secure under shields and walls because she was a Grounder—because the only emotions they seemed to show were anger or cool indifference.

When he asks Clarke about it, she shrugs.

“They’re not so different, Bellamy,” she says quietly, sitting away from all the others. “It’s not like they don’t _feel_. Because they do. It’s just…sometimes it’s safer to not show just how much you’re feeling.”

“And who taught you that? The Commander?” Clarke’s face softens somewhat and she studies him.

“I know no one here is fond of her. And you have good reason not to like or trust her. I mean, after I first saw her again, I tried to attack her.” Strangely enough, she smiles, and Bellamy wonders what exactly happened to make what should be an awful memory a fond one. “But Lexa saved my life, Bellamy. She kept me sane.”

“She took away the guilt?”

“No.” Clarke immediately shakes her head violently. “No, no one can do that.” She looks at him, and she shrugs again. “You offered forgiveness, to share the guilt. But it wouldn’t have been fair to you if I let you do that. Because it was _my_ choice.” She gives him a small smile, one that barely touches her eyes. “I bear it, so you and the others don’t have to. And Lexa taught me how to do that. She keeps the guilt at bay.”

“I get it, Clarke,” he says after a minute, looking over to what remained of the original hundred. “What’s she like, anyway? The _real_ Commander? The person beneath the glares?” Clarke grins.

“If I told you, she’d probably kill you and then me.”

“She sounds warm.” And, surprisingly, Clarke laughs.

xxx

She notices it when Clarke takes off her jacket so they can work on the radio tower that fell after a particularly bad storm just days ago.

Abby had seen it first, when Clarke had returned to Camp Jaha and was given a mandatory check-up. But when Raven heard Abby complain to Kane about it, she hadn’t believed a word—even Octavia hadn’t gone _that_ Grounder. She feels stupid, now, for not noticing how different Clarke was, for not noticing the thing that is _so_ obvious.

“Quit staring at me, Raven,” Clarke says, interrupting Raven’s thoughts. “If you want to ask, just ask.”

“You got tattoos?” Clarke nods.

“It was a hell of a year,” she says simply. “Besides, it’s just _one_ tattoo.”

“What’s it mean? Lincoln says the tattoos have meaning.” For a second, Raven doesn’t think Clarke will respond, but then she lets out a sigh.

“It’s a rank, that’s all.”

“Can I get one?”

“Do you _want_ one?” Raven pauses, unsure, and then shakes her head.

“No, I don’t think so. I don’t want to go Grounder.” They work in silence for the next half hour, but Raven can’t help but look up every now and then to study the tattoo on Clarke’s right arm. Finally, the silence becomes too much and she asks the question that has been pestering her from the moment Clarke came back. “Why did you forgive her?” Clarke wipes sweat from her brow and looks at Raven with resignation—this is clearly a conversation she doesn’t want to have, but will get through anyway. Raven doesn’t allow herself to wonder why Clarke would do so.

“Why did _you_ forgive _me_?” she asks.

“I didn’t. I don’t.” Raven doesn’t like the way Clarke looks at her knowingly, so she turns away.

“The issue was never about forgiveness. Because I understood what she did—I made the same exact choice. The issue was trust, and I got over it.”

“How?” Clarke sighs, and the pause before she answers is long and tense.

“I realized her leaving was never about me. She trusts me, and I trust her, but there is nothing more important than the safety of our people.” Raven turns to look at her, and she can read what Clarke is not saying: If it comes down to a choice, she knows the Commander will not choose her.

“Clarke, I—”

“It’s fine.” Except Raven can tell it’s _not_ fine, but she now understands why Clarke didn’t want to have this conversation. So she changes the subject.

“What did Octavia say that first day?” Clarke frowns only briefly in confusion before she answers.

“She forgave me. For TonDC.” She nods and looks at Clarke seriously, deciding a Clarke Griffin on her toes is a Clarke Griffin more likely to give answers.

“What does the tattoo really mean?” Clarke raises an eyebrow at the question.

“Did you ask Lincoln?”

“Yeah, and he says it just marks you as a Grounder or whatever. That you’re one of them.” Clarke doesn’t say anything, and Raven’s mouth falls open. “Are you _serious?_ So you really did go Grounder.”

“It’s not that big of a deal—”

“Like hell it isn’t! You said nothing is more important to the Commander than the safety of her people. You’re one of her people now!” Clarke blushes, and that’s the only reaction Raven needs to connect all the dots. “That’s the whole point, wasn’t it? Why you went Grounder—for _her_!”

“Raven, calm down.”

“Calm down? Are you kidding?” Clarke shakes her head desperately.

“I know you’re upset—”

“Upset?” She laughs, shaking her head. “I’m not upset, Clarke! You’ve been back for two weeks and you gave Octavia a bloody nose—”

“—she gave me one first—”

“—you’ve practically growled Jasper into being a decent human again,” she continues, ignoring Clarke’s interruption. “You walk around like you’re expecting someone to attack you any second, and you’ve got Grounder tattoos.” She shakes her head in disbelief. “Clarke, we thought we _lost_ you. That you’d, I don’t know, converted or something. But you’re just like Octavia—changing for the sake of love.” Clarke’s blush deepens.

“Octavia didn’t change for Lincoln. She _likes_ the Grounders. And so do I. I didn’t do this for Lexa.”

“Sure you didn’t. Just like you didn’t convince the ‘Coalition’ to establish trading with the ‘Sky People’ for us.” Raven grins and punches Clarke lightly on the shoulder, feeling relieved. “So you and the Commander, huh? Do you make jokes about betrayal all the time?”

“Raven, seriously?”

“Yeah,” she nods, conceding. “I can see how that would get old pretty quickly.” They lapse into a silence again, though this time it’s comfortable and Raven doesn’t see a need to break it. All she can think about is how great Abby’s reaction will be when she finds out about Clarke’s relationship with the Commander.

She only briefly wonders if she’s a terrible person to want to see it.

“She changed how I saw them, Raven,” Clarke says quietly, breaking into her thoughts. “We’re not that different at all.” She can tell Clarke wants some sort of validation, and she finds she’s perfectly willing to be the one to give it to her. After all, if Clarke can forgive the Commander for abandoning them, if Clarke trusts Lexa, there’s no reason the rest of them can’t do the same (even if the Grounders tried to kill them…several times).

“I trust you, Clarke. And I’m willing to give your Commander and the Grounders a chance if you think it’s a good idea.” Clarke gives her a grateful look but then she frowns.

“Lexa’s not _my_ Commander.”

“Sure. Whatever you say.”

ii.

Clarke tells them the Commander will come to Camp Jaha nonchalantly, almost as an afterthought.

“When?” Octavia asks, standing up and wiping off the mud that has caked on her knees (they’re looking for some medicinal plants that Lincoln told them about, but so far all they’ve managed to do is get dirty). Monty stands up as well, tired of digging through the mud, and looks at Clarke expectantly. When she sighs and rolls her eyes, he realizes that the indifference was just an act.

“Soon,” Clarke says with a shrug. It’s Octavia’s turn to roll her eyes.

“Clarke—”

“I don’t know, Octavia,” she interrupts, sounding exasperated. “Lexa is meeting with the clan leaders, trying to gain support for the _Skaikru_ to be made part of the Coalition so trading between us can begin.”

“Well, if the Commander _is_ the Coalition, it shouldn’t be too hard.” Clarke gives Octavia a look (it’s one that has become quite common since Clarke returned; Octavia calls it the ‘Commander-less Clarke’ look, because she claims Clarke’s practically perpetual bad mood stems from the separation) and shakes her head.

“It’s not that easy. You of all people should know that.” Monty watches as Octavia purses her lips and nods. He’s heard about Octavia’s gripe with Clarke—no one has been able to get Octavia to tell them _why_ she was determined to hate Clarke—and he’s glad that they’re mending the rift between them. After all, like Bellamy says, though they live with the Ark survivors, the original hundred (or what remains of them) are their people, their family.

And Monty doesn’t like the idea of his family members fighting.

“I’m just saying. There was no need for the two of you to arrive at different times. I know you’ve been moody because you haven’t seen her in a while.” Clarke looks offended.

“First of all, I’m not _moody_ ,” she snaps, and Octavia flashes Monty a look, as if to say, _You see what I mean?_ And though he _does_ see, he keeps his mouth shut; better to have Octavia hate him than Clarke (then again, they _both_ have a mean right hook…). “Secondly, we _did_ have to arrive at different times. Us ‘Sky People’ aren’t as open and warm as we like to think. I thought a bit of a warning would be nice.”

“You call this a bit of warning? Randomly telling me and Monty as we collect herbs for Lincoln and your mom?”

“It’s better than nothing. Besides, don’t pretend you won’t immediately go off and tell Lincoln.” Clarke turns to Monty. “And you’re like Bellamy’s private messenger. You tell him everything.” Monty grins slightly.

“Sorry, Clarke. He took over your position once you left.”

“And what position is that?” Octavia asks sullenly, rolling her eyes. “Resident killjoy?” 

“I tell you everything, too,” he tells Clarke, ignoring Octavia’s comment. “Like your mom telling anyone who’ll listen that you went Grounder in order to learn what they know about the earth.” Clarke’s eyes widen.

“My mom thinks I was a spy?” she asks incredulously. Octavia shakes her head and mutters something that sounds suspiciously like, _Welcome to the club_. But Monty just shrugs.

“She had to come up with something for why you left. Clarke, people judge me and Bellamy, but they’re _scared_ of you.”

“Good,” Octavia says, and Clarke nods.

“If by people you mean Jasper, then I agree with Octavia. He has his head so far up his—”

“—it’s not just Jasper!” Monty interrupts quickly, holding up his hands. Clarke’s ‘Commander-less’ look drops for just a second, but Monty can see all the pain and guilt that she’s been carrying since the Mountain etched into the curve of her lips as she frowns. And suddenly, he feels stupid for ever bringing this up—Clarke had managed to _heal_ , and here he is, picking at the scab like an idiot.

“Screw them,” Octavia says before Monty can try to fix his mistake. Clarke’s eyes, which were focused on the ground, shift towards the other girl. “Who cares what they think?” Octavia looks at Monty and then at Clarke, and she stands up a little straighter. “You two and Bellamy saved our people. And yeah, you had to make a lot of tough decisions,” Octavia looks only at Clarke here, as if making sure she knows _she’s_ the one who had to make the tough choices, “but you did it to keep us alive. So screw what they think. You did what you had to.” Monty’s ashamed to feel his eyes burn, but when he notices that Clarke looks rather emotional as well, he swallows and grins.

“That was one hell of a motivational speech. Must be a genetic thing,” Clarke says weakly, and Octavia snorts.

“Please. Bellamy has nothing on me.” Octavia shoulders the bag full of herbs and motions for them to follow her. “Come on, Clarke. Let’s go tell your mom that your girlfriend is going to visit—and may or may not kill us all.”

“ _Octavia!”_

(She ends up with another bloody nose, and Monty finds himself thinking that he’s glad he’s got his family back).

xxx

Raven doesn’t think she’ll ever forget the look on Abby’s face the day the Commander arrives at Camp Jaha. It’s a mix of anger, fear, trepidation, and pure antagonism. Overall, she just looks vaguely constipated. Commander Lexa, however, doesn’t seem to care about Abby’s problems (digestive or otherwise), because her eyes are only on Clarke. And even though the romantic in Raven died somewhere between hurtling down to Earth in a hundred year old tin can and finding out that Finn cheated on her after just _ten_ days, she can’t help but think that—at that moment—there’s nothing _more_ romantic than the way Clarke and the Commander are staring at each other, as if nothing exists but the two of them.

If she weren’t a grown ass woman, Raven would probably let out an excited squeal.

“Should I say something?” Abby asks, the constipated look giving way to an apprehensive one, and it takes a moment for Raven to realize she is asking for _her_ opinion.

“I don’t know. That’s _your_ daughter,” she answers, watching as Lexa dismounts her horse and Clarke walks hurriedly up to her. There’s no hugging or kissing like Raven expects (she’s been around Lincoln and Octavia enough to know that Grounders held _nothing_ against public displays of affection—it’s disgusting, really). Instead, the Commander stares at Clarke and Clarke stares back, and it’s the _weirdest_ foreplay Raven’s ever seen.

“I feel like they wouldn’t notice me anyway,” Abby mutters, shaking her head. Raven manages to turn her laugh into a cough, and she shrugs.

“Yeah, I wouldn’t hold my breath.” Abby doesn’t answer, and the two of them watch as Lexa leans in to whisper something in Clarke’s ear, and the mask that Clarke held firmly in place since she returned to Camp Jaha seems to disintegrate (this gives credence to Octavia’s ridiculous belief that the mask was Clarke’s ‘Commander-less’ look, and that pisses Raven off).

That feeling is short-lived, however, because over the next few days, Raven finds herself reluctantly amused.

First, there is the change in Clarke. She looks and acts the same as before (she still glares, still picks fights, still scares Jasper into being a decent human), but there is a softness about her, a gentleness that Raven has never seen in her but Abby claims is more like the old Clarke—the Clarke before her father was floated. Raven is sure that one of the major reasons Abby is so determined to hate the Commander is _because_ Lexa is able to coax out this softness (though what drives Raven nuts is that she doesn’t know _how_ Lexa does it—she and Clarke only ever seem to talk and stare; even when they walk side by side, their shoulders barely brush, and their smiles are practically microscopic. Raven just doesn’t think it makes _any_ sense).

Second, Raven gets a great deal of satisfaction from watching the strong and proud Lincoln grow more nervous with each passing day. But the Commander, after a brief and heated argument with Clarke (this is something Raven notices they do a _lot_ , and she sometimes finds herself wondering if _that’s_ how they release the pent up tension between them), speaks with Lincoln privately, and he stops acting so jittery. Octavia later tells her that the Commander had assured Lincoln that bringing the Sky People into the Coalition meant he would be safe and could see his friends again.

And finally, there’s Abby’s strange behavior. Initially, she opted for the ‘ignore them until they go away’ tactic, but quickly seemed to remember that she was not five years old. She then tried to separate Clarke and the Commander by making up excuses to draw Lexa’s attention away from her daughter:

“What would your people think about sharing farmland?” Abby asked one afternoon, and the Commander listened patiently to the ideas before gravitating back to Clarke.

“What do you think about expanding Camp Jaha?” Abby tried later on, and Lexa was drawn into a discussion about boundaries and borders that lasted for hours.

(Admittedly, it was rather clever of Abby, except that she didn’t take into account that Lexa asked for Clarke’s opinion on practically _everything_ —“Clarke, what do you think?” she kept saying, and several times, Raven would’ve _sworn_ the Commander was hiding a smirk, as if she knew _exactly_ what she was doing).

But now, after it becoming quite clear that ignoring and separating Clarke and the Commander was pointless, Abby has resorted to option three: stalking.

Raven snorts as she watches Abby approach Clarke and Lexa (who are in the middle of yet _another_ heated discussion), clearly intending to “spend time with her daughter.” If it all wasn’t so funny, Raven thinks she probably would just tell Abby that no amount of interference would break down the relationship between Clarke and the Commander.

“Is Abby following them around now?” Raven turns slightly, and grins when she sees Octavia and Lincoln.

“Our Chancellor is living in denial,” she says happily. “Clarke’s gone totally Grounder for the Commander I don’t see how anyone can say otherwise.” Octavia raises an eyebrow.

“You like the Commander now?” she asks, shaking her head. “You do remember everything she’s done, right?” Lincoln makes a noise, some sort of cross between disapproval and a warning, and Octavia holds up her hands. “She did _one_ nice thing, Lincoln, and that was only because Clarke bullied her into it. That doesn’t wash away everything else she’s done.” Raven, however, finds herself agreeing more with Lincoln wordless censure than with Octavia.

“Clarke gave the Commander a second chance.” Octavia rolls her eyes.

“She also gave _Murphy_ a second chance. And he tried to kill Bellamy.”

“Bellamy gave Murphy a second chance, too,” Raven tries again (she doesn’t mention that she did as well).

“And Murphy abandoned us to go off with _Jaha_.” Raven opens her mouth, but a slight shake of Lincoln’s head keeps her silent.

“Your people tortured me and I managed to forgive them,” he says softly. Raven narrows her eyes, offended at the insult to her people.

“You _kidnapped_ Octavia. And _stabbed_ Finn!” They all fall silent and watch as Abby invites herself into a moment Clarke and the Commander don’t quite seem willing to share.

“Maybe that’s the point,” Lincoln says after a minute. “We’ve all done things. Maybe it’s time to let it go.” Raven doesn’t want to admit she agrees with him (and it’s clear Octavia, though willing to forgive Clarke, will _never_ be okay with the Commander), so she gestures to Clarke and Lexa. 

“Is that a Grounder thing?” she asks, only slightly joking. “Is the Commander not supposed to show affection?” Lincoln looks down at them, and seems very close to rolling his eyes in exasperation.

“Not everything strange is a Grounder custom, Raven,” he says shortly, shaking his head. “They are leaders. Everything they do is scrutinized and judged. Perhaps they just wish to keep this aspect of their lives private.” Raven scowls, while Octavia smiles proudly.

“When did you get so good at reading Clarke?” she snaps, glaring at him. This causes Octavia to laugh.

“You’re supposed to know your people. And she is my people.”

“Damn Grounders,” Raven mutters, but this just causes Lincoln to smile slightly and Octavia to laugh even harder.

The next day, Octavia admits that she is willing to give the Commander a chance for Clarke, but it becomes increasingly clear that Abby will not do the same. The stalking, of course, continues, but there is also an underlying intolerance in her interactions with the Commander that makes Raven wince. After the third time she witnesses Abby’s behavior, Raven decides to speak up.

“You may want to stop that,” she says, trying her best to hide how impressed she is with the way Lexa controls her emotions—because _no one_ is dense enough to not see the anger shimmering behind the Commander’s eyes, but _everyone_ is surprised that she has yet to lash out (something that, at this point, Raven doesn’t even think anyone would even blame her for).

“She’ll hurt Clarke,” Abby says fiercely, clearly intending to ignore Raven’s warning.

“Well, the only one who’s hurting Clarke right now is you.” Abby doesn’t answer, but then, Raven didn’t expect her to.

Lexa, of course, eventually grows tired of the stalking, the interference, and the interruptions, but instead of fighting like Raven half expects her to (wasn’t that the Grounder way, after all?), Raven overhears her tell Abby and Clarke that she will leave for Polis the next day. Abby struggles with hiding her smile.

“I have a few things to take of first, but I’ll be in Polis within the week,” Clarke says with a nod, and Abby’s smile slips right off her face.

“You _just_ came home,” she protests. Clarke looks over to Raven pleadingly, and she nods, knowing exactly what Clarke is asking her for.

“Abby,” she calls, limping a few steps closer to the three women, trying to pretend she wasn’t just eavesdropping (though, if the look on Lexa’s face is any indication, she didn’t fool anyone). “My leg twinges. Mind taking a look?” It’s pretty clear Abby is reluctant to end the conversation, but she nods rather quickly, and walks with Raven to the medical bay, grumbling under her breath the entire time she examines Raven’s leg.

That night, Raven and Octavia argue for an hour over how Clarke will react once Lexa leaves the next morning (Octavia claiming there would be tears and Raven insisting that Clarke would at least go for a hug), only stopping when Clarke sits down next to them, tells them to stop gossiping about her, and then asks if they want to go with her to Polis when she leaves later in the week. Octavia immediately nods, and after a half a minute, Raven does as well.

The next morning, it becomes clear that Raven and Octavia don’t know Clarke as well as they thought they did.

Lexa is playing with the straps of her horse’s saddle, and Clarke stands next to her, her mouth moving a mile a minute. The only indication that Lexa is even listening is the occasional nod and the slightest quirk of her lips.

Octavia, who is standing with Lincoln by the gates of Camp Jaha, shrugs at her, clearly unsure what to make of Clarke’s interaction with the Commander. She, of course, is not the only one; the Ark survivors have stopped what they’re supposed to be doing in favor of watching Clarke and Lexa.

“ _Ai hod yu in_ ,” Clarke says (clearly unaware of her audience and Octavia’s grin at the words), her eyes only on Lexa, and Raven can practically feel the waves of tension rolling off Abby from several feet away. Lexa, however, seems to be just as oblivious of the small crowd they’ve attracted as Clarke, because she smiles (which is bizarre, because Raven never knew she could even _do_ that) and nods.

“And I you, Clarke,” she says softly before she mounts her horse gracefully. Raven is so busy watching Clarke and Lexa stare at each other that she doesn’t notice that Abby has glided up to her.

“What does that mean?” she asks, looking anywhere but at her daughter. Raven snorts.

“C’mon Abby. I don’t know the Grounder language and _I_ can figure it out. It’s not rocket science. Just make an educated guess.” Abby’s face flushes, and it’s clear that she already knows exactly what Clarke said.

“I don’t trust her.” There’s so much Raven can say to that, but she finds she just doesn’t quite care. This is, after all, the same woman who slapped her.

“ _You_ don’t need to. Clarke trusts her, and that’s good enough.” Raven turns back to see that Lexa has already gone, and Clarke’s mask has fallen right back into place. (Octavia’s claim that it is Clarke’s ‘Commander-less’ look, though still ridiculous, turns out to be accurate, and that pisses Raven off).

“She left us to die.”

“So did you,” Raven mutters, shaking her head, but she remembers Lincoln’s words, and she can’t help but continue. “We’ve all done things, Abby.” There’s a second of silence and then Abby lets out a deep sigh, looking worn and far older than ever.

“Her relationship with Lexa is the final nail in the coffin.”

“What do you mean?” Raven asks, feeling a little defensive. Despite all the mixed feelings she has towards the Commander and the Grounders, she’s willing to fight for them (because she is sure that _Clarke_ would fight for them, and Raven would fight for Clarke). 

“Because it means she doesn’t need me anymore.” For the first time, Raven feels a bit of sympathy for Abby, but she doesn’t say anything. Instead, she shrugs, and limps over to Clarke.

“My mother complained about Lexa, right?” she asks without preamble, grinning slightly. Raven can’t help but notice that her eyes seem dimmer, her countenance sadder.

“Yep.”

“What do you think, Raven? Am I being stupid?” Clarke tries to make it sound offhand, but Raven thinks there’s no one she understands better than the girl who killed Finn to make an alliance and save their people, sacrificing everything about herself to do so (because you’re supposed to know your people, and Clarke is her people). So instead of waving her off like she did with Abby, Raven stares Clarke down.

“It’s nauseatingly adorable and potentially problematic, but it’s not stupid,” she says, grabbing Clarke by the arm to force her to look up. “Even if it all goes to crap, it’s not stupid.” When Clarke nods, it’s clear she understands; despite everything that happened with Finn—the cheating, the obsession with finding Clarke, the massacre—there isn’t a second Raven regrets, a second she would give up (because he was her family and she loved him, and for her, that was all that mattered). They’re silent for a moment, and then Clarke cracks a grin.

“Do you think it’ll all go to crap?” Raven snorts.

“Well, your Commander doesn’t have a great track record, so I dunno.”

“You really need to stop saying that. Lexa’s not _my_ Commander.” 

“You keep telling yourself that, Clarke, but it won’t make it any less true.”

iii.

Merely two days after the Commander leaves, Clarke loses all semblance of control. Jasper—in what must be a suicidal attempt to prove something that wasn’t his place to prove—starts making a few choice comments about Lexa and the Grounders from the moment they leave. Clarke is impressively calm and stoic through all this until Jasper dares to insult _Monty_ as well _._ That’s when the dam breaks (and Raven is lucky enough to get to witness it).

“I’ve had _enough_ of you,” Clarke says, shoving Jasper hard in the chest. “You want to complain about Lexa and the Grounders, be my guest. They don’t _care_ about what you think.” She shoves him again, actually forcing him to cower against the metal wall of the Ark, and Raven is partially sure she should stop spying and step in before Clarke does something she regrets. “Monty, though, _does_ care. And he puts up with you because he’s your friend and he knows you’re in pain. But I’ve had enough,” she says, shaking her head. “It was _me_. _I_ killed them all. So if you want to blame or hate someone, just focus on me.” The glare Jasper’s receiving looks terrifying, and Raven is about to take action, but Clarke swallows and takes several steps back. “Stop being a cowardly. Stop taking out your anger on the wrong person.”

“So what? Should I take it out only on you?” Jasper asks, gritting his teeth. Raven is mildly impressed—she always _liked_ Jasper, but she has to admit this is the first time she’s seen Jasper act remotely like himself since leaving Mount Weather (and by that she means he’s not being mopey and generally awful, and instead is showing a bit of the backbone she always knew he had).

“Yes,” Clarke tells him simply.

“You couldn’t have done it without Monty,” Jasper says softly, and even from a distance, Raven can see tears filling his eyes. “And it’s not like there was a gun pointed at his head.” _He didn’t have to do it_ , Raven knows Jasper wants to say, and she can’t help but feel incredibly _sorry_ for him. Clarke must feel the same way, because her face softens almost imperceptibly, and she lets out a sigh.

“No, there was a gun pointed at _yours_ ,” she says with an awkward one-shouldered shrug. “And another at Octavia’s. And at Raven’s. And at my mom’s…” she trails off, blinking furiously, the softness disappearing as soon as it had come (a trick, Raven is sure, Clarke learned from the Commander). “It had to be done.” Clarke stares impassively ahead while tears roll down Jasper’s cheeks as he shakes his head, and Raven isn’t really sure which one she thinks is stronger—the one who forces her bleeding heart to scab over and toughen up to bear all of the weight thrust at it, or the one isn’t afraid to show just how much of a toll the burden is costing him.

“How long will that line work, Clarke?” he asks, his voice thick. “How long until it can’t wash away what we’ve done?” There’s a second of silence, and Raven knows that Clarke won’t answer him—won’t answer him because she just doesn’t want to let Jasper in on the secret that the line never really worked in the first place.

“We’re going to Polis,” she says softly instead. “Come with us.” Jasper looks at her incredulously for a second and shakes his head stiffly.

“No. I don’t think so.” Clarke shrugs like she expected this answer.

“Okay. Can I leave knowing that you blame me and not Monty? That you’ll leave him alone?” 

“Yeah, I can hate you and not him.”

“Good,” Clarke says with a curt nod, turning to leave. Raven lets out a sigh of relief, glad that Jasper got away with his life—considering the way Clarke had been acting, it’s somewhat of a miracle. 

“I don’t want to hate you either, Clarke,” Jasper says suddenly, forcing Clarke to freeze and Raven to want to hit him for being so stupid. If the goddamn threat to your life lets you go, what kind of idiot calls for it to come back? “I’m just…angry. And sad.”

“I know.”

“Does that go away?” It’s a ballsy question (because it’s obvious that he’s not talking about Monty and himself anymore, but of Clarke and Lexa and the weird relationship they’ve built, with the staring and the heated arguments). Raven’s partially sure that Clarke is about two seconds away from handing his ass to him, so she shifts slightly to be more comfortable, and settles down to watch Clarke finally snap and beat Jasper up like she did to Octavia.

Except, after a long pause, that’s not what happens.

“Do you care about Monty?” Clarke asks softly, looking at the ground rather than at Jasper. He nods immediately.

“He’s my best friend.”

“Then it’ll go away.” It’s a lie. There is nothing Raven is more sure about than that. Because Raven loves Clarke, but a part of her will still always be angry with her; Raven will _always_ be angry and sad that Clarke killed Finn, even if she did it to spare him and save the rest of them. But as sure as she is about the lie, she’s also sure that it’s necessary. She pushed aside her anger and sadness away in favor of love and forgiveness because she _knew_ that’s what she had to do (because Finn was gone and there was nothing she could do about that except not give up). Jasper, though, is teetering on the edge; it’s obvious he wants to stop being angry, he just doesn’t know how. So Clarke lies to him, shoving him off the edge, all the while ensuring he falls back on something that will cushion the drop. “So? Are we understood?” He nods shakily, and this time, when Clarke turns to leave, Jasper doesn’t call her back.

Raven, though, decides to follow her.

“Are you going to eavesdrop on all my conversations?” Clarke asks when Raven reaches her, struggling a little because of her leg.

“It’s a small camp and you talk loudly,” Raven says with a shrug. “About Polis, though. Are you sure Octavia and I can go?” Clarke stops walking and she looks at Raven curiously.

“What do you mean?”

“Look, Clarke, I know the Commander didn’t exactly get _welcomed_ while she was here, and I don’t want to cause any problems for you.” Clarke’s face clears of confusion and she smiles slightly.

“You’re worried that Lexa will be angry with me for bringing you and Octavia?” she asks with a laugh. “First of all, I doubt she’ll be upset. If anything, she _likes_ showing off her city.” Clarke has a stupid looking grin on her face, and Raven is almost positive she’s not even aware of it. “And secondly, _I_ want you two there with me. Trust me, Lexa won’t say a word against having you there.” Raven looks at her and laughs.

“Is the Commander that willing to go with what you say?” Clarke studies her for a moment, and Raven squirms beneath her gaze. She briefly wonders if Clarke is offended by what she said, but that worry is washed away when a smile—a real one, wide and uninhibited—graces her features.

“I know what you’re doing,” she informs Raven, her smile intact. “Thank you.” Raven feigns ignorance and shakes her head.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’ll see you in the morning, okay?” Clarke nods, and Raven turns to limp away before she lets out a groan and turns back around, pulling Clarke into a hug. “It had to be done, Clarke. No one hates you, and no one blames you.”

“I do,” she whispers in Raven’s ear, hugging her back tightly (not at all like the awkward one she gave Raven before she rode out to warn Lexa and the others about the missile—but that’s a whole other can of worms that Raven’s unwilling to open). “I hate and blame myself.”

“Is that why you and Lexa are so close? Because she can understand that?” Raven isn’t sure why she asks, and by the look on Clarke’s face as she pulls away, she doesn’t either. So it’s a surprise to both of them when Clarke answers.

“No. We’re close because we share it.” Raven nods, refusing to ask what ‘it’ is, knowing Clarke wouldn’t offer that information up anyway. Besides, she’s rather sure she already knows: they share the pain, the guilt, the self-hatred, the blame, the _burden_ that comes with being in charge.

“You know that we’d share it with you, too, right?” Raven finds herself saying, and she’s surprised that Clarke smiles at her, small but sincere.

“That’s why I left, Raven,” she says with a shrug. Raven wants her to continue (wants her to elaborate), but Clarke looks like she’s done with talking (there’s an uncomfortable expression forming on her face, as if she’s given away too much and doesn’t know how to take it back), so Raven just nods and ambles away.

It’s a two day trip to Polis, Raven thinks. In two days, she can get Clarke to spill _all_ her secrets.

xxx

Raven hates that Clarke knows them so well.

She’s been in a bad mood all morning (Clarke woke them up at an _ungodly_ hour, giving some lame excuse about how travel is ‘safer’ in the mornings, when it was obvious she just wanted to get to Polis as soon as she could), and Clarke’s sudden vow of silence is pissing her off more than it should. Octavia, of course, has decided to be as unhelpful as possible despite her promise to get Clarke to talk (and wasn’t that just freaking convenient?), so Raven is left seething, staring down at the top of Clarke and Octavia’s heads.

The Commander had left a single horse behind for Clarke’s trip back to Polis, clearly unaware that she’d want to bring along company. And though Raven argued intensely, Octavia and Clarke decided it would be best if she rode horseback while they walked. Other than the fact that riding horseback was ridiculously uncomfortable and Raven was half-afraid that at any moment the animal would chuck her off its back, the arrangement turns out to be halfway decent. It gives her an excellent vantage point with which to chuck nuts at the back of Clarke’s head (this not only helped her release her frustration with Clarke, but was a much needed escape from the monotony of the landscape: trees, trees, and more trees).

“You’re wasting our food, Raven,” Clarke finally snaps after the twentieth nut bounces off the side of her head, breaking her silence for the first time since she woke them up hours earlier. “This is a two-day trip. Do you want to be out of food in the first six hours?”

“I’m not worried,” Raven says with a shrug. “I’m with two Grounders—you two could round up food easily.” Octavia, who is holding on to the reins because neither she or Clarke trusted Raven with them, rolls her eyes.

“I’d let you starve. It’d serve you right.” Raven doesn’t respond; instead, she throws a handful of nuts at Octavia too. Before Clarke can protest, Raven holds up a hand.

“You know what I want, Clarke,” she says, and Clarke’s eyes narrow and harden momentarily before she lets out a deep sigh.

“Yes, we left before sunrise because I wanted to get to Polis a little sooner. Are you happy now?” Octavia snorts, but Raven just raises an eyebrow.

“Please, don’t underestimate how well I know you. _That_ was obvious. I want to know something else.” The groan Clarke lets out practically echoes in the stillness of the forest, and Raven smirks, knowing she has won.

“What do you want to know?”

“Did you leave Camp Jaha knowing you’d go to Polis?” Octavia asks before Raven can say a word, and though this isn’t the question Raven wanted to ask, the uncomfortable look on Clarke’s face is enough to make her incredibly curious.

“No,” Clarke says, and it’s clear she wants to leave it at that. But Octavia and Raven must be more intimidating that they realize, because Clarke lets out a sigh a second later and continues. “No, going to Polis wasn’t my choice.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? Were you dragged there?” Octavia’s comment seems to rattle Clarke, and she shakes her head vehemently.

“About a month after I left, food got harder and harder to find. I was weak, I was sick, and I’d lost my only weapon. That’s when Emerson found me.” Intuitively, Raven knows that this is not the time to express any sort of reaction to this knowledge. So she keeps her face completely blank and remains silent, grateful that Octavia does the same. “I was sure that he was going to kill me. He’d run out of ammo hunting, but he had a knife, and he kept saying that he’d make me suffer for what I’d done.” Clarke’s eyes are focused on the ground as she walks, and her voice has gotten so soft that Raven has to crane her neck to hear (she pretends she doesn’t regret ever asking Clarke to answer their questions). “I don’t remember what happened, but the next thing I knew, Emerson was dead, and I was bleeding heavily.” Clarke’s tone is inflectionless, and Raven knows that she’s lying—Clarke knew _exactly_ how Emerson died. “I passed out, and when I woke up, I was in Polis.”

“Did Lexa find you?” Octavia asks softly, and Clarke laughs and shakes her head.

“No, Lexa was off quelling some sort of uprising between two distant Clans.” She turns to look at them with a shrug. “The man who found me was a healer. He said that he’d heard stories about me, about how much even _heda Leksa_ respected me, and so he _had_ to help.”

“Why didn’t you leave once you were better?” Octavia asks. “Why not come home?”

“Because I fell in love with Polis,” Clarke says, and she leaves out the part that they all can hear anyway: _Because I fell in love in Polis_. “You’ll understand once we get there. Lexa has every reason to want to show off her city.” Again, they hear what Clarke isn’t saying: _I want to show off my city, too_.

Just like that, Raven realizes the question she wants to ask is pointless, because the answer is ridiculously obvious: Clarke had a choice, and she chose Lexa. And, despite the Grounder clothes and language, the fighting, the growling, and the mask Clarke’s become so proficient at wearing, Raven thinks that she made the right choice for herself. 

She thinks there will always be a part of her that will be angry and sad with Clarke for what she did to Finn, but at that moment, she’s nothing but happy for her friend. _It’ll go away_ , Clarke had said, and for the first time, Raven wonders if that wasn’t a lie after all.

xxx

Raven wants to hate Polis. She truly, really, honestly does. But Polis, clearly aware of this, seems to be flipping her off as she walks (limps?) through the gates (which are really nothing more than large sheets of metal) and instantly falls in love.

The streets are winding and packed—of people, carts, and the aroma of food—and there’s laughter in the distance, two little girls chasing each other with wooden sticks (which Raven thinks are supposed to be swords), but most importantly it seems alive, _vibrant_. It’s nothing like the cold, dark Ark they grew up in or the grounded one they lived in now. For the first time, Raven knows what it means to hear the hustle and bustle of people (because they’re _so_ many people), knows what it means to get lost in a crowd. And it’s incredible.

Not that she was willing to let Clarke—or the Commander, who had materialized out of nowhere the second they arrived in Polis, her eyes on Clarke, a hint of a smirk on her face—know that.

“It’s a little packed, don’t you think? Too crowded for my taste,” Raven says, ignoring the hand Clarke holds out to her, navigating the uneven street on her own. The Commander, who looks younger than ever in her own environment, grins.

“Polis is our largest city,” she says proudly, and Raven wants to snort at the tone (because the intimidating warrior is _bragging_ about her city, and Raven doesn’t even need to see the stupid affectionate look on Clarke’s face to find the whole situation incredibly amusing). “People come here from all over—anyone from any Clan is safe in Polis.”

“So if we’d landed here instead of in the middle of nowhere, we wouldn’t have been attacked?” Octavia asks drily. The Commander’s mood isn’t dampened by the sarcasm—if anything, she looks amused.

“You fell from the sky, Octavia. The last time man-made objects fell to the ground was when our ancestors fired their bombs and destroyed our world. My people do not take chances.” Octavia growls in response, and Raven thinks they’re seconds away from committing treason or something. But when she turns to Clarke expectantly, the blonde just raises an eyebrow, not looking inclined to either take a side or stand between Octavia and the Commander. Raven idly wonders if this is the Grounder way: you show affection through punching.

“Saying whatever helps you sleep at night, right?” Octavia snaps, and Raven watches as the Commander’s face darkens momentarily. She turns to Clarke hurriedly.

“Don’t you want to step in?” Clarke seems confused by the question.

“Why? Octavia’s not a threat to her. Besides, she can protect herself, she doesn’t need me.” Raven wants to protest (wants to point out that it’s the Commander who’s the threat and Octavia who needs the protection), but before she can, the Commander speaks up.

“I am finding it hard to remember why I told Clarke you had nothing to fear from me,” she says, and the warning is clear in her tone and stance. Yet, still, Clarke does nothing—just stands there, watching in curiosity, as if she has no doubt that nothing will happen. Just as Raven is about to shove Clarke forward and call her an idiot for having so much faith in the Commander, the tense moment is broken when Lexa takes a step back. “But you have nothing to fear from me,” she says, and Raven hears the significance of the words, hears the tacit, _I’m letting go of this insult for Clarke._

So when Lexa walks away, clearly intending to continue their tour of Polis, Raven rushes past the gobsmacked Octavia to reach Clarke and give her an apologetic smile.

“You were right,” she faux-whispers, leaning closer to the blonde dramatically. “The Commander really didn’t need your help.” Clarke laughs, her eyes on the back of Lexa’s head.

“You shouldn’t underestimate how well I know her,” she replies, and Raven actually has to look away from the soft smile that appears on her face.

“Polis is gross. And you two are disgusting,” Raven mutters, but even she can hear the lie in her tone.

xxx

Octavia doesn’t mean to eavesdrop.

Not really.

She’s looking for Clarke, wanting to ask if they can go sightseeing (because Polis is a _city_ , and she wants to get to know it in a way she was never able to get to know the Ark—she wants to explore and familiarize herself with every nook and cranny because she can see Polis becoming a home, a place she and Bellamy and Lincoln can live and be _happy_ ). The issue is, _Lexa_ is in Clarke’s room, the two of them in the middle of one of their heated arguments. Octavia knows she _should_ walk away and pretend she never saw this, but she can’t. There’s some weird curiosity that burns through her, and she _has_ to know what they argue about.

“She wishes to cause strife among the Coalition,” Lexa is saying hotly, pacing back and forth in the room. Octavia cranes her neck a little so that she can see Clarke’s expression: a mix of understanding and worry.

“This is a power play, Lexa. She wants you to show your cards—expose your weaknesses.” Lexa stops her pacing and she looks at Clarke with a grim smile. It’s obvious they’re talking about the Ice Queen—Octavia’s heard more than enough about her to know she’s a real bitch—and suddenly, it becomes clear that the rumors about the Ice Nation vying for war weren’t rumors at all.

“She clearly already knows my weakness,” Lexa says with a significant look, but Clarke is unmoved by the comment and shakes her head quickly (which Octavia finds unfair; she remembers Clarke’s ‘love is weakness’ phase, knows exactly what Lexa is saying, and doesn’t understand how Clarke can so easily wave such a comment off when Octavia’s frankly flabbergasted that Lexa even _knows_ how to be sweet).

“No, she doesn’t. But if you go into that meeting angry and vengeful, you’ll be giving her exactly what she wants.” Lexa practically growls and begins her pacing once more, looking furious.

“She knows where we stand on this issue, Clarke.”

“No, she knows where _I_ stand.” Octavia doesn’t need to see the furious expression on Lexa’s face flit briefly between hurt and sorrow to know that it is the _wrong_ thing to say.

“I stand where you stand,” Lexa says coldly. “I thought you knew that.” Clarke raises her hands, stepping forward, her face going blank when Lexa backs away from her and collapses in a chair.

“I do know that. But the Ice Queen doesn’t.” Lexa doesn’t respond, and this must be a good sign, because Clarke steps forward again and falls to her knees in front of the Commander. “Look at me,” she says softly, making sure she’s not touching Lexa. “You _know_ that the other Clans don’t care for the _Skaikru_. Be impartial in this, Lexa. Be impartial and let me fight for my people.”

“ _Our_ people,” Lexa corrects softly. “Your people are mine, Clarke. And I will not throw you into the lion’s den. They will tear you apart.”

“Then _let_ them. I can give as good as I get, Lexa.” But Lexa is shaking her head, obviously unwilling to listen to a word Clarke is saying—something Octavia is amused to find she has in common with the Commander. Clarke, however, is far more manipulative than Octavia ever gave her credit for, because as Lexa shakes her head furiously, Clarke reaches up and takes Lexa’s hands into her own, rubbing gentle circles over Lexa’s skin with her thumbs. “You have to be impartial in this, Lexa. You know that.”

“I made a promise to you. I will not break it.” Clarke lets out a sigh and leans up. After a short pause, Lexa bends forward so that their foreheads touch.

“You promised that we’d always find a way to keep our people safe _together_ ,” Clarke protests gently, releasing Lexa’s hands and cradling her face instead. Her thumbs now gently stroke the Commander’s cheeks, and Lexa’s eyes flutter close. “We _are_ working together. You’re not breaking your promise.”

“I do not like the idea of pretending to be impartial. I will be lying,” Lexa says, but all the fight is gone from her voice, and Octavia knows that Clarke has won this argument. 

“I know you don’t like lying to your people. But it’s for a good cause. To prevent a war.” Octavia doesn’t need to see Lexa’s soft smile to know that Clarke has purposefully misunderstood Lexa’s comment. With a soft sigh, Octavia moves away from the door, unable to shake the guilt that suddenly fills her.

Because she suddenly feels dirty; she now understands what Lincoln meant about the two leaders keeping this part of their lives private. Because this, this intimate moment, is something she was never supposed to see. The Commander she’s spying on is one she doesn’t recognize. This is merely a girl with a heavy burden, a girl who is afraid for the one person she cares for, a girl who knows that the person she loves, and the promises they make to each other, will always come second to her people. Even worse, for the first time, Octavia understands Bellamy’s assessment of Clarke, how old Clarke and new Clarke are the same. Once again, Clarke—who was gone for a year, who people thought selfish and cowardly (people like herself, she realizes with shame)—is sacrificing her own desires to protect _all_ of her people, the _Skaikru_ as well as the _Trigedakru_.

And for the first time, Octavia feels sorry for Clarke and the Commander, so she leaves the same way she came: silently and unnoticed.

xxx

At dinner that night, there’s absolutely no indication that Clarke and Lexa had been arguing earlier. Their faces are calm, relaxed, the same mask of indifference mirrored on both their expressions. In fact, had Octavia not been absolutely sure that she didn’t have the imagination for it, she would have thought she made the entire argument she witnessed up. She turns to Raven with a huff, ignoring her plate of mutton and some grainy bread.

“I can’t decide if they’re incredibly healthy or terrifyingly unhealthy.”

“I don’t know if you’re talking about the food or Clarke and the Commander, and I don’t really care.” Octavia glares at Raven, a little surprised by the response.

“What’s _that_ supposed to mean?”

“What, I’m supposed to help you deal with Grounder Clarke now when you didn’t help me earlier? Please.” Octavia rolls her eyes and shoves Raven’s shoulder.

“You know as well as I do if we ganged up on her she’d have clammed up. Like a clam.”

“You’ve never even seen a clam, Octavia,” Raven says tiredly, shaking her head, but Octavia just rolls her eyes again.

“So? We learned about them in Earth Studies.” Raven snorts at the comment and shakes her head again.

“No, _we_ learned about them. You were stuck under the floor and had to rely on Bellamy to teach you.” Octavia is silent for a moment, preparing to lash out, when she notices Raven’s smirk. All the fight escapes her at once.

“Screw you, Raven,” she mutters without bite, turning back to look at Clarke and Lexa, who are now speaking cheerfully. “But seriously. What do you think?” Raven eyes the Commander and Clarke for a moment, and Octavia can tell that she’s carefully mulling over her next words. It’s unlike Raven to not just say what was on her mind, to act and speak _without_ thinking, and Octavia suddenly realizes how important Clarke’s become to the mechanic.

“I think…I think it’s none of our business,” she finally says, shrugging. “If Clarke wants our opinion, she’ll ask us.”

“But she won’t ask us.” This makes Raven grin.

“Exactly,” she says, and she turns back to her food, cheerfully ignoring all of Octavia’s attempts at starting a conversation.

The next day, however, Octavia _does_ see the ramifications of Clarke and Lexa’s quiet and heated argument. There’s a procession—some sort of celebration for warriors who have survived, an honor Octavia knows she’ll never receive because though the _Skaikru_ and _Trigedakru_ aren’t enemies anymore, they’re not friends either—and Clarke stands by Lexa’s side stiffly, clearly uncomfortable. And after several minutes of watching them discreetly, Octavia suddenly understands why.

At that moment, as she lays wreaths of flowers on top of the passing warriors’ heads, Lexa is the _Commander_. She demands respect, attention, and absolute obedience. And Clarke is clearly struggling. Not because she wants to be in charge (contrary to what Octavia so harshly accused her of) or that she is in a subservient role (she’s Lexa equal in this, standing right beside her, even playing a part in the ceremony), but because there is a marked difference between Lexa and the Commander and that would be hard on anyone to witness.

The Lexa Octavia saw the night before was soft, compassionate, fiery and passionate, firm in her convictions yet willing to see reason. The Commander Octavia sees now is hard, unmovable, a wall made up of steel and stone. (The Commander is a mask, but Octavia can tell that it’s a mask that physically pains Clarke to see).

Later, during the feast, Octavia listens as Clarke shakes off whatever issues she has with Lexa’s mask. She refers to Lexa as ‘Commander,’ falling back into a supporting role, speaking only when she is asked a direct question, and always moving the conversation back to what “the Commander thought.” The behavior seems familiar, and it takes an embarrassingly long time for Octavia to figure out where she recognizes it from: it’s exactly what Lexa did while she was at Camp Jaha.

And really, that’s when Octavia decides that she doesn’t need to watch the two of them so closely anymore. Raven is right, she thinks. It’s none of her business.

(But a few days later, when Raven nudges Clarke’s shoulder and says, “You know, Clarke, Lexa’s not all that bad,” Octavia can’t help but laugh in agreement, giving Clarke the approval she never really sought).


	3. demisexual

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact: I don't actually have the prompts people sent me, just one word titles and the fic itself and honestly fics like this one make me wonder how detailed prompts were, because I honestly can't believe I wrote about sex without prompting

They met in the sole restroom of the art building.

Later, Lexa would think it was a cosmic twist of fate, or something of the sort, because she’d _never_ even set foot in the art building before. There was something vaguely disturbing about the colors and smell of paint and sawdust permeating the air, and more importantly, it was clear on the other side of campus—almost as if it had been separated from the rest of the university on purpose (once she’d heard a professor claim that was because the art was a profession one chose out of love and passion, that art students brought about feelings of jealousy and bitterness in all those who hadn’t had the courage or means to pursue something they cared for, and the university just couldn’t afford to have that; Lexa was more inclined to believe that someone, early on, had separated the department in order to contain the paint fumes in one part of campus only).

(Right, so she didn’t know much about art. Sue her.)

The fact was, she never had any reason to step into the art building, never had any _desire_ to be there, but Anya had spilled her blueberry smoothie all over Lexa’s sweatshirt, so Lexa was forced to head towards the closest restroom to attempt to wash the gunk off. Unfortunately—or perhaps fortunately—before she could reach the sink, she nearly tripped over a pair of legs, only managing to rein in the curses at the tip of her tongue when she heard the telltale sounds of sniffling.

“What’s wrong with you?” she asked, stripping off her sweatshirt—leaving her in an old t-shirt—and tossing it in the sink before turning to the girl who sat on the (gross) bathroom floor, blonde hair forming a curtain in front of her face. The girl didn’t even bother to look up, she just sniffed again, something between a sob and a snort making its way out of her throat. (And okay, to be fair, Lexa _could’ve_ been a little nicer. But she was still pissed at Anya and she’d just nearly been tripped into a bacterial infection induced death.) “Yeah, you and me both,” she muttered when the girl made another sobbing noise. She turned on the faucet, rubbing the blue drink out of her sweatshirt, only mildly aware that the girl had gotten to her feet and was approaching her.

“I like your tattoo,” she said, and she actually reached out, tracing the patterns on Lexa’s arm with her fingers. Lexa pulled away, glaring at the girl.

“Whoa, personal boundaries?”

“You were the one who kicked me, the least you could do is let me look at your tattoo.”

“Excuse me? You’re the one who nearly killed me.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Besides, I asked if you were okay, as far as I’m concerned, I owe you nothing.” The girl tucked her hair behind her ears, meeting Lexa’s gaze evenly (her eyes were blue, almost sky blue, Lexa noticed idly).

“You know, I think I missed the memo stating that ‘what’s wrong with you’ means ‘are you okay.’” It was stated in a deadpan, and Lexa couldn’t help it, she let out a soft laugh, rolling her eyes.

“Fine then. Are you all right?”

“Yeah,” she shrugged, lying. “You know, you’ll never get blueberry stains out that way. What you need is vinegar and rubbing alcohol.”

“Oh is that it? It’s a good thing I’m always sure to carry those wherever I go.”

“If you’re done being sarcastic, we have some upstairs.”

“You want me to walk deeper into the art building? As if the bathroom wasn’t enough?” The girl smiled, almost as if unconsciously, and she grabbed Lexa’s wrist, tugging on it gently when Lexa didn’t pull away.

“You get used to the fumes after a while,” she said with a roll of her red-tinted eyes. Lexa knew what she was: a distraction, a way for this girl to ignore whatever it was that was hurting her. And somehow, someway, Lexa felt something in her give way, and she nodded.

“If you say so,” she muttered, wringing out her sweatshirt. The girl smiled widely.

And that was how Lexa became friends with Clarke Griffin.

//

Clarke had the idea in a bar.

(Because, _of course_ it was in a bar.)

Later, Lexa would think it was a cosmic joke, a way for the universe to punish her for something she wasn’t even quite sure she’d done. (Had she killed puppies in a past life? Was this karma for all the flowers she snipped from their bushes, stealing them from pollinators and nature and other people who might want to stop and smell the roses? She wasn’t quite sure.)

In a way, she’d known she’d be in trouble. Clarke was…well, she was pretty. There was no denying her physical beauty. And after she got to know Clarke better…well, _that_ was pretty too. She hummed when she was nervous, laughed at all of Lexa’s terrible jokes, loved ice cream, was passionate about her work, had dreams and aspirations that would put others to shame, was hardworking and kind and funny and smart, and well, by the time Clarke had confided in Lexa that she was crying the day they met because she’d found out her boyfriend had been cheating on her, by the time Clarke had mumbled one morning over coffee that Lexa was her best friend, Lexa had known she was screwed.

(It was punishment, it _had_ to be.)

“Emotions are stupid,” Clarke said, taking a sip of her drink. She was somewhere around being tipsy, her cheeks just a little flushed—likely from the stupid heat of the stupid bar where people had _stupid_ ideas—as she shrugged crookedly. “You know?”

“Sure, Clarke.” (Except, no. She _thrived_ on emotions. She liked emotions. In fact, the reason she knew she was screwed was because she felt so many emotions around Clarke. She was talking about deep emotional commitment, and Clarke…well, Clarke hadn’t been fond of feelings since Finn.)

“I’ve been thinking, you know?” Lexa nodded seriously, though honestly, she was terrified of what a drunk Clarke could’ve thought up. “No-strings attached sex is the best sex.” Lexa felt her eyebrows shoot up, and she choked a little on her water (someone, of course, had to make sure Clarke got home safely).

“Is it?”

“Yeah, it is. No feelings. No attachment, no commitment.” She looked almost dreamy as she spoke. “No chance of getting hurt.”

“But also no chance of having more.”

“But who _needs_ more?” Clarke asked, and had she been any other person, Lexa would have raised her arm high above her head, screaming, _me, me, me_! But it was Clarke, and she was way too far gone with Clarke. “The catch is, you gotta do it with someone you can trust. Like a friend, like your best friend.” Lexa’s heart pounded away in her chest, breaking eye contact almost nervously.

“Clarke, you’re drunk.”

“I’m not.”

“You don’t know what you’re asking.”

“But I do, I’ve been thinking about it.”

“You don’t even like me that way.”

“That’s the point, isn’t it? I don’t have romantic feelings for you, but do you have any idea how attractive you are?” Lexa blinked, swallowing hard, attempting from keeping her face crumbling at the easy way Clarke waved off romantic feelings for her. “No strings attached, Lexa. And we’re close enough that we know where to draw the line.”

(This, this was where Lexa had to draw the line. Any further and she was sure she’d have her heart broken.)

“You’re drunk,” she repeated. “We can talk about this when you’re sober and thinking straight.” (That was _not_ what she intended to say. That was _not_ drawing the line.)

“You don’t have to let me down easy, you can just say you’re not attracted to me.” Lexa sighed, feeling a headache come on. Not attracted to Clarke? Well, maybe not initially. But after she’d gone and fallen in love with her, yeah, _then_ the attraction had started.

“That’s not it, Clarke.” (That was _still_ not drawing the line! What the hell was she doing?) “I don’t want this to be something you suggest while drunk and then regret. Okay?”

“Yeah, okay.”

(Clarke brought it up again several days later, while they were in her room, studying together. And Lexa, fiercely attracted, fiercely committed, fiercely attached, fiercely in love, found herself agreeing, and it turned out to be the best— _sex_ with _Clarke_ —and worst—sex with a Clarke who didn’t care for her—mistake she ever made.)

//

“You’re distracting me,” Lexa protested weakly, shifting her textbook and straining to read. She was being entirely unsuccessful—she was rather sure she’d read the same sentence six times already.

“I’m sorry,” Clarke said, not sounding sorry at all as she pressed a kiss to Lexa’s jaw, then her neck, then her collarbone. When Lexa moved to allow Clarke more room, Clarke snapped the textbook on Lexa’s lap shut and tossed it to the ground, moving to straddle her. Hands ran up and down her sides as Clarke pulled her into a bruising kiss, pressing even closer to her.

“I have a test on Friday,” Lexa informed her between kisses, smiling when Clarke just snorted, her fingers twisting around the hem of Lexa’s shirt before she moved away long enough to pull it off her.

“I’ll help you study later.”

“This doesn’t count as studying, Clarke,” Lexa said, shivering under Clarke’s hands and hot kisses, finding it difficult to remember what it was she was protesting when she felt Clarke’s hand pop the button of her jeans.

“You’re too stressed,” Clarke offered, tugging Lexa’s pants down before shifting and pressing kisses to the inside of Lexa’s thigh. “Let me help with that.”

Lexa didn’t offer any more halfhearted protests about studying after that.

//

It had changed in almost imperceptible ways, and it had taken Anya and Raven pointing it out that forced her to finally admit what she’d known from the start: this was a _bad_ idea.

Later, Lexa would think that perhaps the cosmos really didn’t give a fuck about her or anyone else at all. After all, why would the universe have her meet someone she genuinely wanted as a friend, someone who she fell in love with, someone who was _attracted_ to her, someone who was so emotionally constipated that she couldn’t admit that she had any sort of feelings, let alone love or affection? (The answer, probably, was that the universe wanted to fuck with her. And it was terribly successful.)

“Anya and I were talking,” Raven told her in between mouthfuls of fries, “and we’re really offended you and Clarke didn’t tell us you were dating.”

“We’re not dating,” Lexa sighed, pushing her own food around her plate. She should’ve known Anya wouldn’t have extended a lunch invitation without having an ulterior motive. (Lately, she’d been trying to get Lexa to admit she was in a relationship, not listening to Lexa’s protests that she _wished_ she was in a relationship.)

“That makes no sense to me.”

“It is what it is. No strings attached.”

“Yeah, fuck that,” Anya said, rolling her eyes. Raven slurped down some soda and nodded fervently.

“Yeah, fuck that,” she echoed. “The two of you are sleeping only with each other,” Lexa perked up a little at that, “you take care of each other when sick, spend all your free time together, go to movies and dinner and other date-like activities, fucking hold hands in public, do that stupid ‘stare at each other adoringly’ thing couples do…face the music, Lexa. You and Clarke? Definitely dating.”

“Clarke doesn’t want commitment.”

“You should tell her, you know,” Anya said, looking serious for once. “It may be no strings for Clarke, but you and I both know it’s not for you.”

“I don’t need your help, Anya, I’ve got things figured out.”

“Do you? Because from where I sit, the only one who’s invested is you. And the only one whose heart will be broken is you.” Raven frowned, rubbing the back of her neck awkwardly.

“I have to agree with Anya, Lexa. I’ve known Clarke for years. It’s better if she hears about your feelings from you, not from someone else.”

(Later, Lexa went to Clarke to tell her the truth, to admit that it’d never been no strings for her, that in all honesty she was a goddamn marionette and Clarke her marionettist, but Clarke’s emotional constipation must’ve rubbed off on her because instead she broke everything off and ran for the metaphorical hills.)

(Later, after she had a moment to think about it, she realized—despite Anya and Raven’s assurances that Clarke did care—she had no desire to hear Clarke tell her she felt no romantic feelings for her a second time.)

//

She saw Clarke again in the sole restroom of the art building.

Later, she would think that it was the universe’s way of telling her it was fond of circular plots, mostly because she’d had no reason to be there except for a masochistic desire to feel close to the person she pushed away. (To be honest, though, she’d also come to the conclusion that the cosmos was probably just really bad at its job.)

Clarke was once more sitting on the ground, legs stretched out in front of her, back against the wall. She wasn’t crying, but she had bags beneath her eyes, as if she hadn’t been sleeping. (Lexa had that problem too—she’d found that without Clarke pressed against her side, sleep was hard to come by.)

“Clarke,” Lexa greeted weakly, stepping over her legs carefully and going straight to the sink. She avoided her reflection in the mirror, eyes somehow pulled towards Clarke’s still frame despite her best efforts to look literally anywhere else. Rather than answer her, Clarke got to her feet, and it was then that Lexa noticed her sweatshirt—her once blueberry smoothie covered sweatshirt—was tied around Clarke’s waist. “That is so unsanitary,” she blurt out, unable to help it. “Please don’t wear it until you wash it a few times, you don’t know what’s been on this floor.” Clarke’s eyes met hers, looking surprised, looking hopeful, looking heartbroken.

(And Lexa’s heart, well, it hadn’t been beating right since she saw Clarke carried around the pilfered sweatshirt.)

(Somehow, that meant something. Maybe that Clarke was a thief. Maybe that Clarke hadn’t wanted to let her go. Sue her if she wanted to go for the more romantic option.)

(Besides, the more romantic option gave her the courage to speak up, so it was definitely the better choice.)

“I should’ve drawn the line.”

“I don’t know what that means, Lexa,” Clarke said tiredly, reaching for the door. Lexa rushed forward, grabbing her wrist, grateful when she didn’t pull away.

“You wanted no commitment, no attachment, no feelings, and I should’ve said no right then because I was sort of in love with you.” Clarke’s mouth fell open but she didn’t speak, so Lexa rambled on, biting her lip nervously. “I was afraid, you know? I didn’t want to admit I’d broken the no-strings thing from the second you suggested it, and I didn’t want to hear you say you didn’t feel the same way, so I, well. Um. I ran.”

“So why are you telling me now?”

“You have my sweatshirt. And it might hurt, and it’ll be awkward for a while, but I miss having you as a friend.”

“I don’t want to be your friend.”

“Right. Well, I mean. That’s fair.” She released Clarke’s wrist, looking down and the bacteria infested floor.

“It’s just that,” Clarke continued, not leaving like Lexa had expected her to, “we did the friends with benefits thing once, and it didn’t turn out well, so I’m sorry Lexa, but I want the commitment, the attachment, and the feelings or I walk.” Lexa’s eyes flew up to meet Clarke’s, nearly sighing in relief when Clarke stepped closer. “So, what do you say? Want to do the whole emotions thing? I hear the sex is great.” Lexa laughed, closing the last of the distance between them, pulling Clarke closer by tugging on her shirt.

“You still need to wash that sweatshirt a few times,” she muttered, but she braved a potential infection and kissed Clarke anyway. 


	4. injury

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact: I'm pretty sure this was the first explicitly gay thing I've ever written. growth!

**Late Morning**

The only reason, she tells herself firmly, that she hasn’t attended to her duties since the battle ended just hours earlier is because she must first know if the stubborn Sky Girl will live. Their people have formed tentative bonds, but Lexa is quite sure that the ones who fell from the sky will not be so open to an alliance if the young blonde dies—she is, after all, their leader, the one who holds the truce intact.

The only reason, she tells herself, that she sits outside the unnatural metal contraption they call an “ark,” is because she is looking out for her people. Nothing more.

Lexa closes her eyes and rests her head back on the cool metal, suddenly recalling the look on Clarke’s face when she asked to say goodbye to the boy responsible for the massacre. She had known Clarke hid a knife in her sleeve, had known that the girl had walked so brazenly into the lion’s den because she wished to somehow save the boy—destroy the truce, but save the boy. Even now, Lexa can only wonder at what made her allow the girl to say goodbye. To let Clarke give the murderer the only thing she could—a good death.

Her eyes open as she admits to herself that that is a lie.

She knows exactly why she let Clarke say goodbye, why she gifted the murderer mercy. It was because of the fire in Clarke’s eyes, the eyes of a leader, of someone who understood how to make difficult decisions. Lexa had seen herself in those eyes and, as Clarke’s desperate words turned into determination—as she realized the boy could not be saved and settled on sparing him pain—she gave Clarke the one thing no one had given to her, hoping that it would be enough to keep the fire in her eyes alive.

But that gesture had not mattered in the end; the fire will die anyway if Clarke’s mother is unable to save her.

As if the thoughts beckoned the Healer, Abby steps out of the “ark,” looking down at Lexa tiredly. “She’s awake. She asked for you.” Lexa ignores the look Abby gives her, a mix of confusion and accusation, and she gets to her feet. “I’m going to, uh,” she lets out a shaky breath, looking at her bloody clothes and hands, and Lexa is surprised to feel a grain of pity for the older woman, “wash up. Watch her until I’m back.” Lexa merely nods in response, not quite minding Abby’s tone, even slightly grateful for the subtle way she was offering them privacy.

Lexa watches Abby walk away quickly before she enters the cold, metal prison with a sense of foreboding. That feeling is washed away when she sees Clarke, laying quite still on what Abby called a “makeshift surgical table.” Lexa pauses briefly, suddenly unsure if she should be here, but her legs are no longer under her control, and she finds herself standing over the stubborn girl.

She is covered in dried blood, and that provides a stark contrast to her deathly pale skin. Her breathing is labored, grimacing in pain each time her chest rises and falls. But it’s the look in her eyes, however, that unnerves Lexa the most. Because the fire that once burned so brightly, so hotly, is now reduced to nothing more than embers.

“Lexa,” Clarke says, heaving a sigh of relief. “I didn’t think my mom would actually get you.” It is only because Clarke’s eyes are dull and lifeless that Lexa does not take offense to the comment.

She is the _commander_ ; there are none who have the right to summon _her_.

“Was there something you wished?” Lexa asks, knowing she is here only for her people, yet is unable to squash the hope that burgeoned in her chest when Abby said that Clarke was awake and had asked for her, unable to quell the feeling that the hope is a spark fated to never catch fire. 

“Promise me that you won’t let the truce fall apart.” Lexa blinks, and though she feels a rush of anger course through her, she is careful to not let it show. _Yes_ , she tells herself, this _is why you are here. For your people. Clarke has not forgotten that, and you would do well to remember it as well._

“The Mountain Men are defeated. What point would there be in a continued alliance?” She does not mean it. The only reason she is here, she reminds herself forcefully, is because she does not want the truce to die with Clarke. But the fire in Clarke’s eyes is dying (just like the hope in her chest that Clarke will get through this), and angering her may be the only way to reignite it. Lexa finds she is selfish enough—cruel enough—to ignore what her people need for a moment and fan Clarke’s flames instead. 

“ _No_.” The word comes out harsh, but if anything, Clarke’s eyes seem to dim further. “You can’t do that. We _need_ each other. You can’t throw that away.” Lexa can tell that this conversation is quickly sapping Clarke of what little strength remains, and she knows she cannot do this. Her people need her to be strong. They need her to make the promise and then return to them so that rebuilding can begin. But _she_ needs Clarke to fight, to live, to not let the fire die out. “ _Please_ , Lexa. Promise me.” Lexa can feel a stinging behind her eyes, but she fights it off and nods.

“I promise.” All the tension in Clarke’s body seems to ease, and she gives Lexa a grateful look, one that Lexa does not want to see. Because Clarke has dedicated what could be her last moments to ensuring her people survive, ensuring they have the commander’s protection, and through her selflessness, Clarke is forcing Lexa to be selfless. 

“You can trust Bellamy,” she says, pausing to take in a deep breath and wincing at the pain. “He’s the leader my people are willing to fight and die for, and he’s a good person.” Lexa wants to tell Clarke to stop talking, to tell her that this is unnecessary. But that is what _Lexa_ wants and needs, and her desires are unimportant in this moment. So she just nods again. “Kane and my mom are only good leaders when they work together—don’t let one of them overpower the other.” Clarke stops, and Lexa can tell she is struggling with whatever else she wants to say. “I’m so sorry, Lexa.” 

“Do you say all this because you believe you will die?” Lexa finally asks, her voice betraying her weakness, when she’s sure Clarke is not planning on saying anymore—is not planning on elaborating on what she is sorry for. Clarke’s lips quirk in a wry smile.

“Don’t worry. Death isn’t the end, right?” She sounds frail; she sounds accepting of her fate. Terror thrums within Lexa, a panic she thinks she will never be able to quell.

“No, but nonetheless, I need your spirit to stay where it is,” she says, echoing what Clarke said what felt like a lifetime ago, and Clarke laughs. It’s soft and breathy, but it’s the first time Lexa has heard such a sound escape from Clarke’s lips, and she’s suddenly struck by just how much she needs and wants this girl to survive. “I promise to keep the alliance alive, Clarke. Can you promise me that you’ll live?” Clarke doesn’t respond; her eyelids flutter shut, and Lexa is suddenly unable to maintain her impassive features. She feels her eyes widen and burn as they fill with hot tears, and she bites her lip hard to push away the horror and pain that threatens to consume her. It’s not working, she knows it’s not working, because her heart is beating erratically, her throat is closing up, and all she can think about is that this is a mistake—speaking with Clarke, for whatever reason, is a mistake.

Because now she must watch as Clarke dies.

But then:

“Yeah,” Clarke whispers, her eyes still shut, though a small smile graces her features. “I’ll try.” Lexa feels her shoulders drop, and her hand—unbidden—reaches out for Clarke’s, grasping it tightly. She allows herself this weakness because she chose her people’s needs over her own when she gave her word instead of fanning Clarke’s flames. She allows herself this moment because she let Clarke say goodbye in her strange and long-winded way, ignoring how desperately she didn’t want to hear the words. She allows herself this because, for a second, she is not _Commander_ Lexa, she is simply Lexa, a girl who has lost too many people she cares about and is now about to lose one more.

“I hear I have you to thank.” Lexa schools her features and looks up, unsurprised to see Abby standing across the table, her eyes on Lexa’s hand. She feels somewhat vulnerable—she dislikes the thought of anyone knowing about how she feels—but she doesn’t move her hand away. And surprisingly, after several moments of tense silence, Abby looks almost…satisfied.

“What do you mean?” Lexa asks, studying the healer’s face, searching for tells, for an explanation to the sudden change in attitude.

“I heard a few of your warriors discussing how they rushed Clarke here after she was hurt.” Lexa does not respond, but it also does not seem like Abby expected her to in the first place. “They respect her. Consider her one of their own. She has you to thank for that.” For a brief moment, Lexa looks at Clarke (who has clearly slipped into unconsciousness), and then she turns to Abby coldly.

“Clarke earned their respect on her own. She does not need me.” There is something in Abby’s answering look, in her stance, that makes Lexa wonder if being born in the sky meant you were imbued with the strength of the stars. Because Abby, too, has a fire in her eyes. Not as wild, not as hot or bright, as Clarke’s, but it is there, steadily burning.

Lexa suddenly finds herself thinking that even Abby’s steady and calm flame is better than the ashes that fills Clarke’s gaze now.

“I don’t think that’s true,” Abby says, and Lexa realizes for the first time how similar the daughter and mother are, because Abby does not deign to elaborate either. “She’ll be fine,” she suddenly adds, giving Lexa a smile that is not returned. “She’ll be out of the woods if she can get through the rest of today and the night.”

“And will she?” She does not know why she asked—she already knows the answer. While she is not as knowledgeable about healing as Abby or Clarke, she has seen enough bloodshed to know when an injury is too much to come back from. _That_ is why what her warriors did is so significant. It is not their way to waste resources on those who will lose their fight, yet Nyko had kept Clarke alive long enough to get her to Abby, hoping the Sky Person healer could do the miraculous.

She does not know or care if they did it because they knew that without Clarke the truce would fall apart, if they considered Clarke a leader worthy of their respect, or if they did it because they knew it was what their _heda_ would want. What was important was that they did it, Abby had done the miraculous, and Clarke was still alive. For now, at least.

“She’s strong. She has to.” Lexa isn’t quite sure if Abby avoids answering the question because she wishes to spare herself pain or spare the stoic commander whose façade is quickly falling apart, but either way, she is somewhat grateful. The fact that someone else who cares for Clarke is in denial as well is almost comforting.

But unlike Abby, Lexa cannot afford to remain in denial for long. She releases Clarke’s hand, and with one last look at her face—serene and gentle in sleep in a way it never is when awake—Lexa steps away, turning to leave.

“I made a promise to keep the alliance alive,” Lexa says before Abby can speak up. “It’s a promise I intend to keep.”

“It’s okay to feel something. It’s okay to want to be here,” Abby protests quietly, shocking Lexa enough that she turns to look at her. “Clarke will want you here when she wakes up.”

“ _If_ she wakes up,” Lexa says harshly, practically snarling, suddenly glad for all the years she spent schooling her expressions, all the time she dedicated to throwing up walls. It is useful now. “And she would want me to ensure the alliance is kept intact, not waste time by her side.” This time, when she turns to leave, Abby doesn’t speak up and Lexa doesn’t slow her pace to give her the chance to.

**Early Afternoon**

The Sky People are hopeless.

As the news of Clarke’s injuries—of her state—spreads, more and more of her people seem to forget that there is work to be done. The wounded still need help, families still need reuniting, Reapers need to be contained, there is a shortage of food, a decision must be made about the innocent in Mount Weather (the people that Clarke kept safe), Tondc must be rebuilt…the list never seems to end. Yet with each passing hour, the Sky People—especially those who had been trapped in the Mountain—lose more of their focus, ambling about outside the metal cage where Clarke is resting (where she is slowly dying).

It is most shocking, however, when even angry Octavia seems to be fraying at the edges. Lexa overhears Indra comment, sarcastically, that the second seemed to care a great deal about a girl she claimed she didn’t care about. The observation has Octavia nearly in tears.

“You don’t understand. Clarke is the reason any of us survived. I may not like her, but I still love her. I don’t know what we’d do without her.”

That is a sentiment shared by the others. Raven sits on the ground, her legs stretched out in front of her, clearly intent on being there the second Clarke awoke. The ones called Jasper and Monty pace away, chattering to anyone who would listen about all the things they would tell Clarke—how they need to apologize to her, need to thank her, just _need her_. Abby keeps up with the other wounded, but she spends every free minute by her daughter’s side, a worried crease appearing on her forehead. Octavia finally stops being stubborn and she joins Raven in her vigil.

The only one who doesn’t seem unfocused is Bellamy.

She runs into him as he rushes around, offering his help freely, almost desperately.

“Commander,” he says in greeting, inclining his head slightly. Lexa nods back at him, and and he falls in step next to her, talking about everything they’ve done and what there is left to do. “The rehabilitation of the Reapers will be the hardest,” he is saying with a shrug. “Kane and the other guards took them to the dropship, where we can at least keep them under control using the tone generators Raven made. But it’s not a permanent solution.”

“No,” she agrees. “Has Abby taught our healers how to keep the Reapers alive?”

“Yeah, but she wants to oversee the process. But given Clarke’s…” he trails off and swallows. “Given Clarke’s injuries, I don’t see that happening anytime soon. I’ve asked Jackson to step up.” Lexa nods, not exactly sure if this Jackson is as good of a healer as Abby, but realizing that there is no other choice in the matter.

Abby is not weak by any means, but she is no Clarke; she is no true leader.

“And what about you, Bellamy?” Lexa asks, looking at him carefully. It is clear he is worried, but Clarke was right when she called him a leader (just as she was right to have so much faith in him) because he keeps going despite the pain she is sure he is in.

“She’s not dead,” he says, and Lexa is surprised to hear the tacit _yet_. She did not realize he too had shrugged off the warmth of denial—of hope. “I won’t mourn her while she’s still alive. There’s work to do. People to help. She wouldn’t want me to stop everything just because she’s injured.” Again, Lexa understands what he means, that Clarke would not want him to stop everything because she is not there. 

It is foolish, but she feels a rush of kinship towards the man who would do anything for Clarke, even if that means he has to ignore his pain and instinct to protect her.

“I understand,” she says, and she knows she has let her weakness show when Bellamy gives her a shocked look.

“Octavia told me that you and Clarke were close, but I don’t think I believed it. You care about her.” He does not intend it as an accusation, though his surprise makes it sound like one, and Lexa does not take it as such.

“ _You_ care about her.” Bellamy lets out a laugh, and he ducks his head, hiding a grin. He looks like a boy for a moment, and the transformation is startling.

“Our princess has that effect,” he says, and she is sure that the comment has more significance to him, because his grin widens for a moment before it slips off his face—as if he’s remembered why they are discussing Clarke at all. “It’s my fault she got injured.”

“No. The Mountain Men are to blame.”

“I told her about the kids on the fifth level. _I_ asked her to go keep them safe.”

“Clarke does nothing but what she wishes. You are _not_ to blame.” He doesn’t look like he has even heard her, he just turns his face away.

“If she dies, it’ll be my fault.” Lexa’s chin juts out, because he has just voiced the thought that has repeated incessantly in her own mind, a thought she has steadfastly ignored. She thinks that if she could turn back time—go back only eight hours—she would never let Clarke out of her sight. She would have accompanied the leader with the bleeding heart to protect the innocent in the mountain.

“If she dies, it is because that is war.” Bellamy looks at her, and she realizes she has shown her weakness again. Because his eyes say that he knows what she really means: _If she dies, I will never forgive myself._

“For what it’s worth _,_ Commander, you’re not to blame, either.” He gives her a grin (she notices that it barely touches his eyes), and he walks away, clearly intent on keeping busy to avoid thinking.

Clarke was right, Lexa thinks wryly, unsurprised by the fact. She _can_ trust Bellamy. Not only that, she thinks she may even grow to respect him.

**Early Evening**

She cannot remember a time when food was so tasteless after a battle.

Normally, it’s the opposite; the exhilaration of being alive, of surviving yet another day, makes everything taste sweeter, as if the body knows it has managed a miracle and wishes to celebrate.

She can hear drums, shouts of joy, and laughing in the distance, but she pays it no heed. Her people deserve to celebrate, deserve this time to cherish the end of their long-time enemy, but that does not mean everyone feels the same.

Bellamy has stopped his incessant movement around Camp and instead paces incessantly around the medical bay. Lincoln—who owes Clarke his life—is leaning against the metal cage, his arms crossed. The ones called Monty and Jasper only whisper to one another now.

A few of her own people remain in Camp Jaha, too, unwilling to join the festivities that will go on all night in the villages. Lexa sees Indra, scowling and pretending she does not care; Ryder, who grew to respect Clarke after acting as her guard; and Nyko, unwilling to leave, no matter how capable he believed Abby to be. 

And of course, there’s Lexa herself. She sits alone on the cold ground, ensuring she is separated completely from the others. She is here only as a sign of respect. She is here only because she is in no mood to celebrate.

She is here only because she is unable to bear being anywhere else.

Lexa closes her eyes, ashamed of the feelings that paralyze her, ashamed of how hypocritical and foolish she is. She wasted so much time attempting to spare Clarke pain, to teach her that not caring was safer for her heart, yet all the while, she harbored feelings for the sky girl—feelings that intensified with each passing moment. How childish she sounds, Lexa thinks with a self-deprecating shake of her head. She taught Clarke not to be weak, only for herself to be proven as the weak one.

It is _her_ fault, of course. The “princess.” Clarke. Because Lexa had been fine until she came along. Lexa had learned to manage with a sealed off heart. But Clarke crashed into her life like her people crashed into Earth, wreaking havoc and leaving destruction in her wake. Lexa’s walls and shields had proven to be nothing but flimsy excuses, excuses that were waved aside as easily as one waves away a fly. What chance did the walls have when confronted with such a formidable foe?

What chance did her heart have when faced with Clarke?

“Commander, you should eat something.” Lexa opens her eyes to glare at the fool who dares to interrupt her thoughts. Her mouth twists slightly in surprise when the fool turns out to be Raven. She’s looking down, pointing to the clearly untouched plate of food that sits next to Lexa.

“I am not hungry.”

“Me neither. But Abby’s being a pain, trying to get everyone to eat, and I thought I’d spare you the lecture she gave me.” With her mission complete, Lexa expects Raven to leave the way she came—without warning. So she is understandably surprised when Raven shifts and sits down next to her, her leg making the process awkward and slow.

“What are you doing?” Lexa asks, perturbed by the company—by how Raven presumes such familiarity.

“You’re alone, and clearly not okay, so I thought you could use a friend.” It is insulting, it is presumptuous, but when Lexa opens her mouth to say so, Raven shakes her head. “You know that if Clarke was okay, she’d be sitting right here next to you. So this is for her.” Raven rolls her eyes. “It’s not a big deal.”

“You care for her,” Lexa mutters, not sure why it requires this kind gesture for the truth to strike her. Raven lets out a mirthless laugh.

“Yeah, well, our princess has that effect.” Lexa frowns thoughtfully at those words, but Raven mistakes it for confusion, because she elaborates. “Clarke…she cares. So much.” Raven smiles slightly, her eyes on the metal cage where Clarke is still sleeping (still slowly dying). “We survived because she cared—because she got Bellamy to care. And, I don’t know, when someone cares that much about you, it’s pretty damn hard not to return the feelings—even if you don’t want to.” She falls silent and leans back, resting on her hands.

“I killed Finn,” Lexa says after a pause. The comment has its desired effect because Raven’s eyes darken, and she turns to glare at Lexa.

“Thanks for the reminder,” she says bitingly, “but believe me, I sure as hell didn’t forget.” Raven’s hands have clenched, and Lexa idly wonders if she’ll attack, before wondering if she is provoking Raven for just that reason. “Besides, Clarke killed Finn.” 

“Because of me.”

“If you wanted me to leave, Commander, you just had to ask.” Lexa nearly smiles at the way Raven’s eyes flash, and once again, she marvels at the strength of spirit she sees in the Sky People. She thinks none of them are strong in the same way, but they balance one another, and as a whole, make a formidable group—that is why they were able to kill three hundred of her warriors. It is why they survive.

“I want to know how you can forgive the one who is responsible for the death of the boy you loved.” Raven snorts.

“Forgive? Who said anything about forgiveness?”

“Then why are you here?”

“Because I’m a _damn_ good person,” she snaps. Indra stands a little straighter and makes to approach them and intervene, but stills when Lexa shakes her head slightly. There is no reason to fear this girl, she knows that.

“You don’t hate Clarke, though you have reason to. And you don’t hate me, though you should. Why?” Raven glares at her so long that Lexa is rather sure she has pushed too hard. But then the glare turns into a look of disgust.

“I’m angry with Clarke right now, but I know that one day I won’t be. And I’m _furious_ with you and the other Grounders because of your damn ways, but one day I might not be.” Her eyes narrow and she looks at Lexa accusingly. “But I will _always_ be angry with Finn. For what he did. For turning himself in. For being such an _idiot_.” She turns away, shaking her head. “I’m angry and I’m sad, but I can’t give up, and I won’t let those feelings turn me into a monster that hates everybody.” She stops and takes a deep breath, clearly to calm herself down. “So, yeah. I’m going to be a damn good person, and I’m going to make sure _you_ don’t fall apart if Clarke doesn’t wake up.” It is Lexa’s turn to clench her fists and narrow her eyes.

“What are you talking about?” she demands, hiding the terror she feels at the prospect of yet another discovering her weakness. A self-satisfied smirk appears on Raven’s face, and Lexa knows she has been miserably unsuccessful.

“Don’t worry,” Raven says, the smirk widening. “Your secret’s safe with me.” Lexa shakes her head in amusement, her turn to feel satisfied when Raven’s smug look slips off her face.

“My caring for Clarke is not a secret,” she says, unable to help the slight quirk of her lips. “After all, our princess has that effect, does she not?” Raven stares at her in disbelief for a long moment, and then rolls her eyes.

“ _Damn_. You almost got me there.” And—unbidden—Lexa feels herself smile.

**Late Night**

She does not sleep. None of them do, not really.

Abby has taken up residence next to where Clarke lays, claiming that she needs to be close as a precaution, but none of them are fooled—Clarke’s condition has deteriorated. She has held on all day, but not one of them believes she will last through the night.

Raven, who stayed with Lexa for another hour before returning to sit with Octavia, leans against the “ark,” shaking her head every so often. No one mentions the fact that she seems to be constantly wiping something away on her cheeks. 

Bellamy has been sitting stoically still for the last hour.

Jasper and Monty speak no more.

Indra and Ryder have left, unwilling to see the immediate aftermath.

Octavia and Lincoln are holding hands, grasping so tightly that Lexa is quite sure one or both of them will lose fingers.

And Lexa? She is schooling her features, avoiding thoughts about the fire in Clarke’s eyes, about how she wishes she could at least say goodbye—how she wishes that for once she had ignored her people’s needs, and Clarke’s needs, and had just focused on her own.

Because _she_ needs Clarke. Not just for the alliance, or because she has proven herself to be a strong and capable leader, but because she _needs_ her. Needs her to talk about how caring is important, needs her to see through the lies Lexa puts up, needs her to be alive, so she can see her, hear her laugh and cry and just _be there_.

The only reason, she admits to herself, that she is here, sitting outside the metal contraption they call an “ark” is because she is looking out for her heart. But there is nothing that will stop it from breaking. Lexa does not cry—she is the _commander_ and her features remain as blank as ever—but she realizes, with a stab to what remains of her shattered heart, this time she will not have walls and excuses and lies to hide behind (because Clarke tore them down, shattered all her defenses).

This time, she will be forced to endure the pain. 

**Very Late Night or Very Early Morning**

She is not quite sure she knows what she’s doing.

Abby stepped out only a minute ago, tears in her eyes, and Lexa had somehow gotten to her feet and found herself entering Clarke’s cold, metal coffin. No one stops her, no one questions her. But she notices how they keep their eyes averted—even strong Bellamy—as if merely witnessing the pain she can no longer hide will make their own all the more real.

_“Clarke,”_ she says as she walks towards the girl, trying to ignore how she seems to have stopped breathing. Lexa is about to reach out, to grasp Clarke’s hand and say goodbye, when she’s shocked to find that something wet is on her face. She presses her fingertips to her cheeks, and the tears she finds there make her realize that she has not entered this grave as the _commander_ , she is here as just Lexa, the girl who has lost too many people she cares for, and is now losing another. “You have made me weak, Clarke of the Sky People,” she says, letting out a deep breath and managing to blink away the rest of the tears. “You made me want more, and then you just—” She stops, leans forward, and glares at the dying girl. “I was _wrong_ to trust you. You made promises you could not keep.”

Lexa clenches her fists and closes her eyes, suddenly filled with hate. She hates the Mountain Men, for taking their people; she hates Bellamy, for sending Clarke to keep the innocents safe; but most of all, she hates herself, she hates herself for getting into this sort of situation again, for allowing herself to become weak, for letting Clarke go off on her own without protection, for not being strong enough or smart enough—just not being _enough_ —to save her. Raven said that she would not let her feelings turn her into a monster, and for her, it will work. But Lexa is sure she already _is_ a monster, and that is why she must lose it all again—why she is always destined to lose it all…

“I said I’d _try_.” Lexa’s eyes fly open, meeting Clarke’s blue ones—blue eyes which are filled to the brim with fire, a fire that burns as hotly and brightly as ever.

And Lexa nearly forgets to breathe.

“We all had given up hope,” she says. “I had given up hope.” Clarke blinks in understanding, and Lexa knows there’s nothing more to say—at least not now. So instead, she calls out for the others.

And she does not even mind that the first thing they see when they rush in is her smile.


	5. unrequited

When Lexa’s thirteen, the feelings start. At least, she _remembers_ having the feelings for the first time when she’s thirteen (sometimes she thinks they may have been there her entire life, and she just never really paid it any attention).

It’s like bubbles in her stomach and electricity thrumming through her veins. She feels elated and high and there’s a heaviness to her heart she doesn’t quite understand. But most of all, most terrifying of all, is the _vastness_ of the feeling—of how she is sure she can topple into it and drown, be completely overwhelmed and overcome and she isn’t quite sure if anything is _supposed_ to feel this way.

She’s thirteen and the feelings consume her completely, body and soul, and she’s too alarmed by them to inspect it too closely. Instead, she lets it fester and broil within her, nursing it, feeding it, giving it life and allowing it to grow unchecked (sometimes she wonders if that wasn’t her mistake).

When she’s fourteen, she finally gives the feelings a name: love. More accurately, she is _in_ love. She tells her mother of the development first, and her mother laughs, tells her it’s a _brilliant_ thing. “Every girl falls in love their freshmen year of high school,” she tells Lexa, grinning in a way only her mother ever could. “Who’s the lucky boy?”

“It’s not a boy,” Lexa says quietly, and her heart is racing, and she’s terrified, because if her _mother_ doesn’t understand her, doesn’t accept her, what hope does she have really? But her worries are baseless, because after a momentary look of surprise, her mother’s grin reappears, and she runs an absent hand over her shaved head.

“Oh Lexa,” she says, her eyes crinkling. “Who’s the lucky girl then?” Lexa bites her lip and swallows.

“Clarke.” This time, her mother’s face falls, and she looks at Lexa with a mixture of pity and worry.

“Oh honey,” she says, and she pulls Lexa into a hug, rocking her back and forth like she did when Lexa was in elementary school and didn’t get along with the other students (until the day she met Clarke, the day she somehow earned a best friend). “I understand, I do.” Lexa allows herself to be hugged and rocked (inhaling the scent she now associates with her mother, a mix of lavender and disinfectant) and she does not question her mother’s comment.

She is _in_ love with Clarke, but there’s an entirely different sort of vast love in her chest for her mother, and on days like today, when she’s being held like this and she can feel her mother’s bones jut into her, she almost thinks that all that love is for naught.

“What do I do?” she asks, but her mother has no answer.

When she’s fifteen, Clarke starts dating a boy named Finn, and Lexa is the first to hear about it.

“He’s incredible, Lexa,” Clarke gushes over the phone, and Lexa makes a face at her mother who is watching her intently. “He’s cute and funny, and he’s big on the romantic gestures. He bought me _roses_ , Lexa. Can you imagine?” Lexa rolls her eyes, miming vomiting, and her mother starts to laugh, drowning out the sound of the IV pump whirring away.

“Yeah, _roses_ ,” Lexa repeats, and she doesn’t think Clarke catches her sarcasm because her best friend is giggling away, clearly euphoric.

A few hours later, when she’s settled on the chair next to her mother’s bed, catching up on school assignments, her mother reaches out and touches her hand.

“You should just tell her, Lexa. I know you’re hurting.” Lexa smiles and holds onto her mother’s hand, shaking her head gently.

“I’m okay. She’s my best friend—I want her to be happy.”

(She leaves out the part that she wishes Clarke could be happy with _her_ , but then, she’s sure her mother already knows).

On Clarke’s sixteenth birthday, they’re lying on her bed, staring up at the ceiling in silence.

Clarke’s party was a disaster. She’d caught Finn making out with some girl in their chemistry class, and he’d been ‘uninvited.’ Finn, however, never seemed to get the memo, and he’d arrived with a chemistry set in tow, screaming about how he and Clarke were ‘meant’ to be together, and ‘had great chemistry.’ (The irony of the statement was not lost on Lexa—Finn clearly had ‘great chemistry’ with a few girls). Abby had sent everyone home once Clarke had stormed up to her room, with Lexa hot on her heels.

But now, after twenty minutes of silence, Lexa can’t take it anymore.

“Are you okay?” she whispers, turning to look at her best friend. Clarke looks utterly relaxed, it’s only because Lexa’s known her nearly her entire life that she knows this is just a mask. “It’s okay to not be okay.” At her words, a single tear forms at the corner of Clarke’s eyes and rolls down into her hair.

“I thought he loved me, Lexa,” she mutters, and Lexa’s heart plunges into the depths, dropping into the vastness of the feelings that have been waiting, preparing, for this moment. Unbidden, the words come tumbling out of her mouth—as if they’d been hiding behind her teeth, eagerly anticipating the moment she would unclench her jaw.

“ _I_ love you,” she says forcefully, fervently, helplessly, and Clarke turns onto her side to study Lexa for a moment. Her blue eyes are wide, but she has clearly not misunderstood the comment, the significance of the three words. Lexa swallows and waits, waits for her response, waits to hear if she’s destined to be saved from the depths or left to drown.

Staring into Clarke’s eyes, she’s not quite sure which she prefers.

“I love you, too,” Clarke says, and it’s as if something breaks inside her because Clarke _does not_ mean it the way she does, Clarke does not feel the same vastness, the same overwhelming feeling that is pumping through her veins with every single beat of her heart. Yet, surprisingly, despite the pain, despite the way her chest aches and agony floods through her, she can still breathe.

She does not drown. 

She is seventeen when her mother passes away.

It is not quick, like the doctors claim. This moment has been coming, steadily, painfully, _surely_ for three years. Yet, she is not prepared. Something about knowing that she will never see her mother’s unique grin or booming laugh makes her knees weak, makes every heart beat a painful thud, and she wishes—oh how she _wishes_ —she could rewind time and give all the love she was capable of possessing to her mother.

Perhaps, she thinks, had she not been so preoccupied with the vastness that was Clarke, she would have had more room for her mom.

But it does not matter anymore. The vastness, the overwhelming feelings she was once so afraid of, is gone, replaced by an emptiness she never thought she could feel (she feels so much, has _always_ felt so much, and she is lost and floundering without the constant threat of drowning).

For the first time in her life, she is suspended in a void—in a dark infinity of _nothing_.

Three months later, on Clarke’s seventeenth birthday, she whispers, “I love you,” to her best friend (her mother had told her to just tell Clarke, and so she does). She pretends not to see the tears that appear in Clarke’s eyes in response (she pretends that she doesn’t hear how empty and insincere the those three words sound to her own ears).

She goes off to live with her uncle on the other side of the country. He’s similar to his sister in very few ways, but there’s a gentleness and kindness to his eyes that Lexa immediately takes a liking to, and she makes up her mind immediately to try, for him.

To try and move on. To try and escape the void that feels inescapable.

It works, somewhat. She makes new friends, friends who know nothing of her mother, friends who’ve never even heard of Clarke Griffin, and the pain in her chest lessens, the emptiness starts to seem a little less infinite. She is not _happy,_ per se, but she is content.

(She never quite dwells on the nights that her heart thuds in her chest, as if it is reminiscing on the memories of Clarke’s presence, on her smile, on the way her blue eyes lit up—on how they filled with tears at when she witnessed her pain).

She even dates.

The girl is on the soccer team, and her dark hair is nothing like Clarke’s (nor are her eyes, but then, Clarke’s eyes are unique, and Lexa’s spent hours recalling every last fleck of brown and green mixed into the sea of blue). Lexa likes her spirit, likes how much she _cares_ , how everything is a cause she is willing to fight for. Slowly but surely, she teaches Lexa how to tread through the void, how to escape it for short intervals, and Lexa thinks that though her heart is irreparably damaged, this girl is the one who could at least partially mend it.

She isn’t, of course. Lexa learns that when she asks her uncle if she could go back home for Clarke’s eighteenth birthday (the fact she still considers where Clarke is _home_ should be telling, but she doesn’t notice it until much later and her uncle doesn’t mention it).

When Clarke sees her for the first time in nearly a year, she practically tackles her, hugging her so tightly, Lexa can barely breathe. But the hug—a hug which only lasts a minute—does what no one else could do: it makes electricity thrum through her veins, bubbles and butterflies bounce about in her belly, the infinite void doesn’t seem so vast anymore, and the feelings are so strong that Lexa thinks she could drown right then and not even care.

“I love you, Clarke,” she finds herself saying, much like the first time—and though she knows Clarke does not feel the same way (she can still see it in her eyes, still see right through the mask she puts up), she feels lighter than she had in a year.

She is lighter, and she is _substantial_. She is grounded in Clarke’s eyes, protected from being washed away by either the infinite void or the vast depths.

“I love you, too,” Clarke murmurs, burrowing her face into Lexa neck, gripping even tighter. Lexa just closes her eyes and breathes Clarke in, breathes her in and lets her lungs fill completely for what seems like the first time since she moved away.

Lexa closes her eyes and thinks that this is enough.

When they both manage to get into the same university (and both decide to attend independently of the other), Lexa wonders if it’s a cruel joke of fate. Being close to Clarke again, seeing her every day, hearing her laugh, watching her eyes light up, brings back a pain that Lexa had nearly forgotten.

She spends Clarke’s nineteenth birthday sipping some sort of alcoholic concoction (which a boy named Monty had procured, though he refused to say how) and watching Clarke talk animatedly to a beautiful girl. Lexa hadn’t wanted to come at all, but Clarke had insisted, claiming her birthday wouldn’t be the same without her.

Lexa wonders if Clarke would even notice if she left.

Sighing, Lexa drains the rest of her drink and gets up. She has two essays due, and was way behind on her reading. Surely Clarke would understand that she couldn’t stay, right? Just as she steps outside, breathing in the cool night air, she hears her name. Clarke rushes out behind her, alone, and looking vaguely upset.

“You’re leaving?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Without saying anything? Not even goodbye?” Lexa rolls her eyes and crosses her arms over her chest, feeling angry for the first time that night (and anger is easier than agony, so Lexa embraces it).

“What do you want me to say, Clarke? You’re obviously busy—”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she demands, her cheeks pinking though Lexa doesn’t know why.

“You know exactly what that means! You should go back to your _date_. Wouldn’t want her to get lonely.” She sounds bitter and jealous and she hates that she sounds that way because she _is_ bitter and jealous.

“What is your problem?” Clarke shouts, and Lexa wants to shake her—wants to rip open her chest and show her what’s beating inside there, wants to be able to somehow explain how watching Clarke with other people is a torture she’s not masochistic enough to put herself through. Instead, she runs her fingers through her hair and stares up at the sky.

“I _love_ you, Clarke. I love you, and I’m tired.” Clarke softens immediately, her eyes shine with regret, and she stumbles forward (Lexa belatedly realizes Clarke is _drunk_ ) and wraps her arms around Lexa’s neck.

“I’m _sorry_ ,” she whispers, her hold tightening just so. “I love you too, you know.” Lexa closes her eyes, and breathes Clarke in. This time, however, she is not met with Clarke’s scent. Instead, she breathes in the stench of alcohol mixed with whatever cheap perfume the girl Clarke was with earlier was wearing. 

Her stomach clenches, her heart skips several beats (as if it can’t bear to go on any longer), and Lexa realizes that somewhere along the line it became more painful to be around her and _not_ bewith her than it was to just stay away.

No, Lexa belatedly realizes, this is not enough.

She becomes adept at avoiding Clarke on campus. She moves into an apartment with a few friends, and pretends she doesn’t feel a vague sense of regret every time she thinks of Clarke.

Two days before her twentieth birthday, however, Clarke calls her, the clatter of rain almost drowning out the sound of her sobs.

Lexa doesn’t stop to think, stop to wonder why all her arguments that it isn’t _healthy_ to be so desperately in love with someone who will never want her back fall flat. She just rushes off, because _Clarke_ needs her, and Lexa’s always been willing to drown for Clarke.

She finds the blonde sitting outside the art building, a ruined painting in her hands, drenched from head to foot. Lexa walks over to her and stands above her so that her umbrella covers them both (she knows it is unnecessary, as Clarke’s already completely soaked, but somehow the gesture holds significance for her, a significance she’s sure will be lost on Clarke).

“What happened, Clarke?” Lexa asks, not bothering with pleasantries. Not bothering to explain why she wasn’t a good friend for an entire year. Clarke laughs, and it sounds forced.

“I can’t believe you actually showed up. I thought you were set on ignoring me forever.” Lexa sighs and closes the umbrella before she sits on the ground next to Clarke. Within seconds, she too is completely drenched.

“Of course I showed up,” she says, ignoring the look Clarke shoots her. “I love you.” Clarke sniffs, and there’s something about the fragility in her gaze that makes Lexa feel a pang in her chest, a pang she fruitlessly tried to ignore for a year.

“I was worried I’d lost you,” Clarke says finally, and she leans so that her head is resting on Lexa’s shoulder. Lexa sighs again.

“No, Clarke. You didn’t lose me.” _You can’t lose me_ , she wants to scream. You can’t lose what you never want. 

You can’t lose what you’re never willing to have.

She’s twenty-one when she fights back.

For years, she allowed the feeling to grow, she fed it, nursed it, allowed it to fester and broil within her, consuming her. But she is tired of the overwhelming feelings, tired of the vastness, tired of telling Clarke every year only to feel empty.

When Clarke’s twenty-first birthday rolls around, she celebrates with the rest of them.

(She does not say ‘I love you’).

(Clarke does not notice).

She wonders if she ignores the banging on her door long enough, it’ll just go away on its own.

“Dammit, Lexa, I know you’re home! Open up!” Lexa’s eyes open and she groans, rolling out of bed and shuffling to the door.

“Do you have any idea what time it is, Clarke?” she asks as she lets her best friend in. She still feels the pang in her chest at the sight of the blonde—she still is consumed by the vast, overwhelming depths of her feelings for the other girl. But she has gotten better at hiding it.

She loves Clarke, she is _in_ love with Clarke, and the only way she knows how to show that is by ignoring the pain, the heartache, and being the best possible friend she could be. She just wishes Clarke would let her be a good friend at a more appropriate hour.

“Do you know what today is?” Clarke asks her, and Lexa frowns.

“Tuesday?”

“Well yeah, but other than that?” Lexa lets out a groan and rolls back her head before fixing Clarke with a glare.

“It’s five in the _morning_ , Clarke. I have class in two hours. So get to the point or go away, I want to sleep.” Clarke huffs but she nods and steps closer.

“It’s your birthday.”

“So?”

“Well, see,” Clarke pauses, takes a deep breath, a look of steely determination appearing in her eyes. “For five years, you told me that you loved me on my birthday.” She pauses again, her eyes narrowing. “And you broke the tradition last year.”

“Seriously Clarke?” It is cruel, is it _wrong_ , for her to do this. For her to shove Lexa’s feelings back into her face, to treat it as one big joke. They were declarations of real, honest, _deep_ feelings, and she can’t believe Clarke would reduce it to a mere _tradition_. “You need to—”

“I love you,” Clarke cuts her off. “I _love_ you, in a big, terrifying, completely incomprehensible sort of way. And I figured it out after you didn’t say you love me on my birthday, but I was so scared.” She bites her lip and Lexa notices that her hands are shaking. “But I realized that you said it for _five_ years. And I was a fucking coward if I didn’t say it. So, here I am, and Lexa, I love you.”

Lexa stares at Clarke for a long while, waiting to be consumed by her vast, overwhelming, _incomprehensible_ feelings. But it does not happen. She sinks to the depths (or it rises to meet her, she’s not quite sure) and she does not get lost, she does drown.

She is grounded. She is secure. She sinks, but is not consumed. 

“ _Finally_ ,” she says forcefully, fervently, helplessly.


	6. unrequited-clarke pov

She’s thirteen when she realizes there’s something different about Lexa.

She’s not quite sure who she can go to about this discovery—her mother would never understand and her father became tongue-tied every time she even hinted that she wanted to talk—so she ignores the certainty that Lexa is _different_. (She’s not quite sure how Lexa is different, all she knows is that something in her swells like a balloon when she sees her best friend, something in her becomes warm, and this isn’t something she feels with anyone else.)

She’s thirteen, she’s confused, but Lexa’s eyes are soft and promise safety, and Clarke falls into them every time.

She’s fourteen when she notices a strange shift in her relationship with her best friend. Gone are the hugs, gone are the nights pressed against each other on the couch, watching old movies with her parents. Once or twice she thinks about confronting Lexa about the change, about telling her that the swelling in her chest was becoming painful, that the eyes she once found safety in were now guarded and closed off to her, but she’s afraid, and so she lets it lie. But her tongue-tied father finally finds his voice.

“She’s not different, you know,” he tells her one afternoon, as they make sandwiches for lunch. He slathers mustard all over his turkey, pausing briefly to lick his fingers clean. “You just feel more for her.”

“Of course I do,” Clarke says, rolling her eyes. “She’s my best friend.” She steals one of her father’s potato chips, grinning widely when he gives her a mock frown, narrowing his eyes playfully. She thinks that’s the end of the conversation, but when they’re in the backyard, eating their sandwiches, her father turns to her with a serious look.

“She might be more than just a best friend, Clarke. Maybe talk to her?” But Clarke, not quite grasping her father’s meaning, shakes her head immediately, eyes wide at the very thought of discussing any of this with Lexa.

“It’s nothing. Really,” she stresses when her father doesn’t look convinced. It takes a few more seconds of tense silence, but finally, her father lets out a sigh and nods.

“All right. So tell me about that art project you’ve been so excited about.” And Clarke happily pushes all thoughts of the safety in Lexa’s eyes, the swelling in her chest, the warmth that tingles throughout her body, away.

It’s nothing. Really.

She’s fifteen when Finn asks her out.

She says yes, not knowing why it feels so strange.

She gushes about him to Lexa, not knowing why it feels so wrong on her lips.

She lets him hold her hand one lunch period, but after Lexa stares at their intertwined fingers for a long moment, she pulls away and pretends she doesn’t notice Finn reaching out for her. (She has no idea what compels her to do this.)

(But the swell in her chest has long since collapsed, and she finds she misses it.)

She’s sixteen and she swears off boys forever as she mopes in her bedroom, fully aware of the fact that she just abandoned her own birthday party. When her bedroom door opens, she’s unsurprised to see Lexa. Her best friend, intuitive as always, merely lies next to her, remaining silent, waiting until Clarke was ready to speak.

(But Lexa is impatient, and Clarke nearly smiles when she breaks after only twenty minutes.)

“Are you okay?”

“I thought he loved me, Lexa.” The words come out softly, unsure. Because love, she understands love. She thought she had it—she thought love was grand gestures and roses and desperate. She thought it was tumultuous and shaky, that it sent your heart racing, was earth shattering, made your breath come out hastily, your nerves continually on fire. Love was excitement, love was a high, love was euphoria. (And she thought she’d had those things with Finn.) But Lexa, safe and sure, calm and steady, an anchor in a storm, reaches out and grasps Clarke’s hand, squeezing tightly.

“ _I_ love you,” she says, something heady and powerful lacing her tone. Clarke turns to her, feels that swell in her chest, that warmth that tingles throughout her body, feels safe in Lexa’s unguarded eyes, and she smiles (wishing, wishing, wishing, she feels the heart pounding, the earth shattering, nerves on fire _desperation_ that is love).

“I love you, too,” she says, horrified to watch as Lexa’s eyes grow guarded once more, gratified when Lexa doesn’t pull away, but merely smiles and rests her head against Clarke’s shoulder.

She watches her best friend fall apart.

Her eyes are no longer merely guarded; they are vacant, empty, devoid of all feeling. Once brimming with life, glittering when she smiled, glistening with tears when upset, shining with warmth and safety when she looked at Clarke, the eyes are merely dark now, merely sad.

She doesn’t smile.

She doesn’t laugh.

And on Clarke’s seventeenth birthday, Lexa pulls her into a loose, listless, lazy hug, and whispers the words “I love you.”

(She doesn’t mean it.)

(Clarke doesn’t know why it feels as if someone just tore out her heart.)

She’s not quite sure how she manages a year without Lexa.

It’s as if the very oxygen has been taken from the air—as if the sun is devoid of all warmth, as if the moon isn’t shining as bright as it once did. She feels heavy, like she’s dragging a weight behind her, and the swelling in her chest has deflated so much that it’s become cumbersome to breathe.

So when Lexa comes back for her birthday, Clarke practically tackles her best friend, reveling in the ability to breathe once more, marveling in the fact that the sun’s rays feel warm against her skin again, that the weight has all but disappeared. And when Lexa tells her that she loves her, for the first time, Clarke wonders just how much she truly understands about love.

Because when she says, “I love you, too,” burrowing her face into Lexa’s neck, inhaling her scent, breathing in her in like she was her only source of oxygen, it feels more real, it feels like a confession.

She calls her father a few days before her nineteenth birthday and admits what she doesn’t want to admit.

“I think I spend too much time with Lexa.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” her father asks, and Clarke can practically see him raising his eyebrows quizzically, her eyes narrowing in confusion.

“Lately, I’ve been…I don’t know. It’s different with her, it always has been.”

“You should talk to her.”

“Yeah, right. Of course.”

(She doesn’t. Not really.)

“I _love_ you, Clarke. I love you and I’m tired,” Lexa says, and Clarke’s drunken brain is incapable of keeping up. She still smells the sickly sweet scent of the girl from the party—a girl who Clarke desperately wished had been Lexa, though that very thought was far too much to handle—and she stumbles forward, throwing her arms around Lexa, holding her tightly.

“I’m _sorry_ ,” she whispers heatedly, needing Lexa to understand. It’s different with her, but she’s not sure how, because she thinks she understands love, but lately she wonders if perhaps she’s been mistaken. “I love you too, you know.” 

She thinks, because Lexa’s arms tighten around her momentarily, that Lexa understands all she cannot say.

She’s wrong.

The first time Lexa avoids her, ignores her, turns from her, Clarke thinks her heart stops beating.

When it continues, she thinks she feels it break.

Losing Finn had made her feel free, losing Lexa makes her feel as if all her essential organs have been torn from her, as if her veins have been pumped with lead, making it difficult to move, difficult to breathe, difficult to feel.

(She has not felt the safety she once found in Lexa’s eyes in years. The swelling in her chest has been deflated like an old balloon. Her fingers and toes tingle with cold, the warmth long since gone.)

Her only solution is to paint her, to etch Lexa onto canvas so that she’ll forever be committed to memory. Her only solution is to try and replicate the safety she found in Lexa’s eyes, realizing belatedly that paint and sketches can never reflect the pools of warmth she’d always found comfort in. Her only solution is to sit in the rain, letting her painstaking work get soaked through, the water washing away the poor imitation, the poor attempt at feeling something again. 

And when Lexa arrives, holding her umbrella over Clarke’s head, keeping her safe from the steady rain, the simple gesture somehow feeling rather significant, Clarke can’t help the words that come out of her mouth.

“I can’t believe you actually showed up. I thought you were set on ignoring me forever.” Lexa lets out a soft sigh, closing the umbrella and sitting down next to Clarke, getting soaked in seconds, ignoring the painting at Clarke’s feet, the pools of color swirling at their feet.

“Of course I showed up,” Lexa says, as if this is a foregone conclusion, even if she’s become terribly good at hiding away over the past year. “I love you.” (Clarke’s heart beats again. She feels the beginnings of warmth in her toes.)

“I thought I lost you,” she says, leaning her head on Lexa’s shoulder.

“No, Clarke. You didn’t lose me.”

Lexa doesn’t continue ignoring her, and Clarke can almost convince herself things have gone back to normal. But when her twenty-first birthday rolls around, she sees the truth.

Lexa does not say, “I love you.”

Clarke notices.

Clarke didn’t understand love.

She thought it was grand gestures and roses and desperation. She thought it was tumultuous and shaky, that it sent your heart racing, was earth shattering, made your breath come out hastily, your nerves continually on fire. Love was excitement, love was a high, love was euphoria.

She was wrong.

For her, love was soft like Lexa’s voice when she tried to cheer her up, gentle like Lexa’s touch when they nestled together on the couch, watching old movies. Love was safe and warm, an anchor in the storm. It was sure, it was strong, said forcefully, fervently, helplessly, said through action.

(Lexa is different.)

(She loves Lexa.)

“For five years,” she tells an exhausted looking Lexa, “you told me you loved me on my birthday. And you broke tradition last year.” This comment has Lexa’s eyes narrow in anger.

“Seriously Clarke? You need to—”

“I love you,” she interrupts, unable to hold it in, unable to allow Lexa the chance to throw her out. “I _love_ you, in a big, terrifying, completely incomprehensible sort of way. And I figured it out after you didn’t say you love me on my birthday, but I was so scared.” She bites her lip and her hands are shaking. “But I realized that you said it for five years. And I was a fucking coward if I didn’t say it. So, here I am, and Lexa, I love you.”There’s silence for a few heart-wrenching seconds, and then the guards and walls all fall, and Clarke finds safety in Lexa’s eyes once more.

“ _Finally_ ,” she says forcefully, fervently, helplessly.


	7. hogwarts au 1

She remembered her from Hogwarts—a quiet Ravenclaw, Head Girl, more OWLS and NEWTS seen since Hermione Granger herself. She was a few years ahead of her, and Clarke had always been a little ashamed of the way she couldn’t keep her eyes off the brown-haired, green-eyed girl, as if she’d been jinxed to only be able to look in the direction of Lexa.

She remembered her from Hogwarts, so when she walked into Clarke’s shop, wearing muggle clothes (complete with a beanie pulled down over her ears), Clarke wasn’t quite sure if she was hallucinating, if perhaps Raven’s experimental potions work upstairs had created just one fume too many.

“How can I help you?” Clarke said, calling attention to herself where she stood in the back, shelving her newest batch of good luck charms. These sold great with ignorant muggles as well as talentless witches and wizards, so Clarke had always been sure to keep herself well stocked, staying up late into the night and charming the odd pins.

“Clarke?”

“So you do know who I am,” Clarke grinned, hopping down from her ladder just a tad clumsily, tripping only a little. When Lexa continued to stare at her, Clarke cleared her throat carefully. “I didn’t think you’d need to come in here.”

“I didn’t realize it was an actual magic shop,” Lexa said, now looking around with more curiosity. “You own this place?”

“Yeah. Since I left Hogwarts.”

“But you wanted to be a Healer, didn’t you?” Clarke’s eyes narrowed, for a wild second thinking that maybe Lexa paid as much attention to her as she did to Lexa. Her hopes were dashed as Lexa continued speaking. “Anya was the Prefect in Gryffindor, she complained all the time.”

“Anya was a terrible Prefect. People were glad when I took her place.”

“I’m sure.” Lexa nodded slowly, then made eye contact with the slightest of smiles. “So you own a business?”

“I decided I wanted as little to do with the magical world as possible,” Clarke said, shrugging. She walked back behind her counter, bumping into only one of her stands, which she considered quite the accomplishment. “But I always liked charms.”

“The sign outside says you sell herbal teas?”

“Oh yeah. For all your divination needs, or to soothe a sore throat, whichever.”

“Anything non-magical would be fine.” Clarke studied her for a moment then nodded, moving out from behind the counter and grabbing a bag from the uppermost shelf on the wall.

“Any particular reason you’re going sans magic?” Clarke asked as she headed back behind her counter.

“I gave up magic a year after I left Hogwarts.” She didn’t explain, and Clarke didn’t ask her to. Instead, she bagged the tea and handed it over, shaking her head when Lexa pulled out a wad of cash.

“It’s a gift,” she said when Lexa’s brows furrowed. “Between two former classmates.” Lexa opened her mouth to say something (perhaps an explanation, perhaps a protest) but she never got the chance. The door flew open and a gaggle of ten year olds burst in, screaming about ‘magic shops.’ “Ah, the afternoon rush. Muggle children are my best customers.” She winked, turned to a boy who was asking about her singing frogs, and when she looked up again, Lexa was gone.

//

Though she was sure that she’d never see Lexa again after that first pleasant day, the former witch came into Clarke’s shop pretty regularly.

It was for all sorts of odds and ends. One afternoon she bought a whole box of divination tea, refusing to tell Clarke why she needed it. Another day, she commissioned Clarke for a cauldron of Felix Felicis, smiling as she said she’d heard Healer-to-be Clarke Griffin was a pro at potions. She came in one morning and bought three prank wands, then another afternoon to buy Remembralls. She bought owl and cat food, asked Clarke to charm a shirt so that it would be impervious to liquids, bought box after box of Bertie Botts Every Flavor Beans.

And Clarke, well, she began to look forward to seeing Lexa every day. She liked seeing the girl in muggle clothes, thinking about how unflattering the Hogwarts robes had been. She liked Lexa’s beanie, liked the tattoo she sometimes got a brief glimpse of (high up on Lexa’s arm, something intricate and beautiful). She liked their friendly and short chats, and though she _burned_ with questions (why give up magic? why buy so much stuff? want to go out dinner?) she never probed beyond asking how her day was going.

(Even worse, with each passing day, the crush she was able to keep under control while at Hogwarts reared its ugly head and refused to be ignored. Her heart raced, her palms went clammy, and she couldn’t seem to stop stammering or bumping into things or knocking Raven into the wall whenever Lexa was around. Even her charms were off, one woman coming back the next day, demanding to know why her joke magic hat had turned her hair an electric blue.)

All in all, it was all a mess, but Clarke couldn’t do anything. So she remained silent, watching Lexa peruse the shelves each time she came in, allowing her mind to wander, fantasizing about things that wouldn’t possibly come true.

//

She began to worry about Lexa’s financial situation long before Lexa ever seemed to.

Almost two weeks had passed with them seeing each practically every day, always just after the afternoon rush, the little ten-year-olds rushing out of her store without sparing the tattooed and beanie wearing young woman a second glance. Lexa would then look around for a while before buying something more appropriate for one of those ten year olds than a grown woman.

“I have to ask,” Clarke muttered, leaning on her counter and watching Lexa peruse the shelves. “Who are you buying this stuff for? Because it’s not for you.”

“What makes you say that?”

“I don’t think you’re the sort of person who’d be fond of dungbombs.”

“There’s a lot about me you don’t know, Clarke,” Lexa said, and Clarke knew it was a joke, knew she was supposed to play along and laugh, but instead she just sighed.

“Yeah, I know.” But she didn’t ask for anything and Lexa didn’t offer up anything, and she watched Lexa leave the shop like she did any other day—with a sigh lodged in her chest and a silent plea for Lexa to stay on her lips.

//

“You’re pining, it’s pathetic,” Raven informed Clarke after Lexa left for the day, the sound of the door closing actually causing Clarke to flinch. “Just say something. Ask her to dinner.”

“I tripped and broke my fake wands,” Clarke muttered, her cheeks still flaming from the incident that occurred not two minutes earlier.

“I know. It’s embarrassing. Just ask her, Clarke. At least you’ll get it off your chest.” But it took three more days (three more occasions that she flinched as she listened to the door close behind Lexa) before Clarke was even willing to consider Raven’s advice.

//

“Why did you give up magic?” Clarke blurted, surprising Lexa enough that she dropped the chocolate frogs in her hand.

“Why did you?” They stared at each other, at an impasse, before Clarke let out a groan and nodded, running her fingers through her hair before she started to speak.

“My dad died,” she said simply, shrugging when Lexa’s eyes widened. “He was muggle born, chose to stay in that world, so when he died…”

“…you wanted to be closer to him. I understand.”

“So you?”

“Magic ruins lives,” Lexa said softly, walking over to Clarke, leaning on the other side of the counter, not breaking eye contact once. “I didn’t want anything to do with it anymore.”

“Who are you buying all this stuff for?”

“My students. I teach at the local elementary school. They love your products, I give it out as a reward to kids who do well.”

“That’s nice.” She was going to turn around, maybe call Raven to watch the store, but Lexa leaned over the counter and grabbed Clarke by the wrist.

“Honestly though, it’s just an excuse.” She smiled softly at Clarke’s wide-eyed look. “I had a _massive_ crush on a fifth year Gryffindor, drove Anya nuts with all my questions.” She shrugged. “The crush never really went away.”


	8. ghosts

She never believed in ghosts.

Costia had. She would spend stormy nights sitting up in bed, whispering ghost stories, stories in which the hero is haunted by the vengeful dead. But Lexa was never interested in such tales.

She always knew the true ghost stories were those in which the hero is haunted by what he's done.

She became aware of this actual horror, this true 'haunting' that Costia had never understood, when she was ten years old, and killed for the first time. She had been Anya's second, then, not yet aware that in a few years time everything she knew would be wrested from her and she would be called to lead her people. She had been ten years old, and the man she killed had had two little boys.

He haunted her dreams for months. He never tried to hurt her (like the ghosts in Costia's stories) but each time his dark eyes fell on her, Lexa felt as if she'd been the one stabbed in the chest, as if her entire world was dark, the sun and stars blotted out by the blood she had shed.

No, Lexa never believed in ghosts. Because the dead were gone. But she believed in being haunted. Because she lived through that every day.

That is why she expects it, the flash of blonde hair in her peripheral vision as she walks the streets of Polis, or the brief glimpse of blue eyes while she's in the market. Her first kill haunted her; it is only natural that she be haunted by her most recent one as well (because her scouts report that the Sky People mourn the loss of Clarke, cry at night when they think no one will notice, how even the strongest of them—Raven, Bellamy, and the Chancellor—have taken to blaming each other: _How could you let her go, she is gone, gone, and it is your fault_ , they tell one another, when really, they have no one to blame but Lexa).

Except, nothing about being haunted by Clarke is natural. With Costia, there was a part of her that logically knew it hadn't been her fault. Costia had known the dangers of being with her—had accepted them. And the Ice Queen had been the one to kill Costia. Yes, she still blames herself; yes, she knows that Costia was used because she loved her; and yes, not a day goes by that she doesn't think of the way Costia's dark eyes practically glowed. But Costia does not haunt her. Because Costia believed in ghosts, and she did not (would not) allow her spirit to remain on this earth—when she left, she took every trace of her with her, and that is the greatest and worst gift Costia has ever given Lexa.

But Clarke is not Costia.

Clarke was more like Lexa than she'd ever want to admit. And Clarke would know that it would be torturous to face what she has done every day. To bear the weight of all her sins every minute of every hour. Clarke would haunt her, because Clarke would know that that is the worst punishment possible.

She expects being haunted by Clarke (in her darkest of hours, she even craves it, because it makes her feel closer to the girl she left to die, the girl who tore down her walls only to be the one left crumbling) but it does not prepare her for how empty she feels. With the man she killed when she was ten, she had Anya's reassurances that it was the right thing to do. With Costia, Gustus had not allowed her to fall apart, and she resolved to bring the Clans together.

With Clarke, there is nothing but water. Her lungs keep expanding, but there is no air to breathe; she is drowning in her pain, in the knowledge that she killed Clarke with her own hands, but instead of dying, the water is washing away whatever was left inside her.

Clarke's haunting leaves her helpless, leaves her breathless, because she needs the reminders of Clarke to get through the day and keep the pain at arm's length, but it also makes her sink deeper into the depths of her own despair.

_(She killed Clarke. She did this, she did this, she did this, so she deserves this)._

So the flashes of blonde hair and glimpses of blue eyes are a combination of a blessing and a curse, and after the fifth time she sees it, Lexa resigns herself to being haunted by Clarke for the rest of her life (which is both too long and too short a period, and she wishes she weren't so weak). She sees the blonde hair and her breath catches in her throat, the ever-present leaden weight on her chest squeezing the life out of her. She notices blue eyes from a distance, and her heart thuds painfully (because she expects to see Clarke, oh how _dearly_ she wants to see Clarke) only to flitter out and die when it's just a random passerby, not Clarke's ghost, not her spirit.

(The thought that Clarke's spirit was too strong, too impressive, to stay behind makes Lexa's knees go weak. Because she _thrives_ on the idea that there's some part of the girl still out there, and merely the idea that she is wrong makes her want to curl into a ball and never move again).

The tenth time, she thinks she hears Clarke's voice, a voice that she hears in her dreams—a voice she does not think she could forget even if she tried.

_Don't we deserve better than that?_ ( _No_ , Lexa thinks now. _No_ , she deserves nothing but pain, but haunting).

The thirteenth time, she's outside of Polis, looking for a particular flower Anya had always liked (and these days she thinks of Anya often, of her reassurances that she did the right thing, of her strength) when she looks up at the sound of a familiar set of footsteps, footsteps she has not heard since she abandoned the person they belonged to at the foot of Mount Weather, and she sees a flash of blonde hair, a glimpse of blue eyes.

She wants to yell, to scream (to force the spirit to give her more or to beg for it to go away, she's not quite sure). Instead, she settles on the ground and takes several deep breaths, attempting to calm her racing heart, to hide the anguish she is sure is written all over her face.

She is the _Commander_ , she reminds herself, and the moment of weakness passes. She stands in one fluid movement before returning to Polis, her pain safely hidden away in her heart.

She does not react the next five times she sees Clarke's ghost (because surely that's what this is, one of those vengeful ghosts who come back to hurt the ones who killed them, hurt them, and, for the first time, Costia's stories have a legitimacy she was never willing to allow them). She manages to hide her pain, hide her fear, hide her guilt.

And somehow, that makes her feel worse (because surely she owes Clarke this, owes her the courtesy of mourning for her, of blaming herself for Clarke’s death, and locking her emotions away seems like yet another betrayal).

The nineteenth time, she thinks, is the worst. Because she hears Clarke’s laughter—a bright, fluttering sound, one that Lexa never had the privilege to hear when Clarke was alive—and it feels like she’s been doused in icy water. That night, the laughter follows her into her dreams, and the haunting she expects when she’s awake also stays with her when she sleeps.

(She refuses to admit that she does not quite mind the dreams, because in her dreams, at least, she gets to see Clarke again—a far cry from the nightmares in which she stands over Clarke’s lifeless body with blood on her hands. No, in her dreams, Clarke’s eyes are narrowed in distrust, her mouth pressed into a thin line, but she’s there, _alive_ , and Lexa considers this a reprieve from the cold truth she’s faced with when awake: that Clarke is dead, _dead_ and _gone_ because of _her_ ).

The twenty-second time she notices her ghost, her spirit, she also hears whispers from her people.

“Why does _heda_ do this?” one asks.

“She must have her reasons. It is not our place to judge,” another responds. Lexa is confused by her people’s confusion, by the strange looks she is getting. Most of all, she becomes anxious when she hears of rumors of war with the Sky People.

“Are the _Skaikru_ our enemies, _heda_?” one of her warriors asks her one afternoon, the twenty-sixth time she notices Clarke’s ghost and determinedly turns away from it, her face blank but her heart a tattered mess.

“No. They have sacrificed much to defeat the Mountain Men. We owe them our gratitude.”

“I do not understand, _heda_ ,” he responds, shaking his head, but though Lexa has no idea what he doesn’t understand, she does not question him, and he does not offer up the information.

She does not see flashes of blonde hair or glimpses of blue eyes for three weeks after that.

At first, she thinks it is a blessing, that Clarke’s spirit has finally passed on, decided she has gotten her revenge. But this feeling of being blessed passes quickly, and her heart aches. Because she has not been punished enough, she is not ready to say goodbye, she is not ready to face a world in which Clarke’s existence is merely a thing of the past.

(She has dealt with that too many times before—with Costia, Anya, Gustus…she refuses to leave Clarke in the past as well, because though the dead are gone, she is not willing to let her go).

No one—not her generals, her warriors, her advisors—notices the pain thrumming through her. (They are not Clarke, she realizes, they cannot see right through the façade, the mask, she puts up because they do not know her, have never known her). And though she goes through her day-to-day activities as usual, there is a hollowness in her stomach, in her chest, that she cannot fill, accompanied by the pain she is too weary to push away.

She is an empty shell, finally lost to the depths of her guilt and shame.

When the ghost does return, so does her heartbeat. She notices the flash of blonde hair, glimpses the bright blue eyes, and she can breathe again. But though she is desperate to find the ghost—to tell it to stay, to never leave, to allow Lexa to be so selfish—she does not move an inch. She continues to speak with the street vendors, nods along as a blacksmith tells her about a shortage of metals, promises a child that he will be a great warrior one day (a promise she hates to make, because she knows the fate of warriors, and it is never good).

She must be strong for her people, she knows this. And so, just as she had to leave Clarke to die, she knows she must eventually let Clarke’s ghost go, too.

She knows this is easier said than done.

The next day, she does not get flashes or glimpses; instead, she can see Clarke, standing there, only feet away, an unreadable expression on her face. Lexa merely swallows and turns away. But when she looks back—because she is strong, but not _that_ strong, so of _course_ she looks back—Clarke’s ghost is standing right behind her, giving her an accusing glare.

“I know you’re mad that I’ve avoided you, but you’ve avoided me just as much,” the ghost says hotly, and Lexa can feel her heart slow to a stop. She knows her people surround her, she knows her warriors are watching, and she struggles to keep her face impassive—to pretend she is not hearing a ghost speak to her, to pretend she has not gone completely mad.

“This is a dream,” she says softly, avoiding the look of surprise on ghost-Clarke’s face, ignoring how _real_ , how _alive_ , how _beautiful_ Clarke looks. “This is a dream,” she repeats, unable to help the single tear that rolls down her cheek, suddenly filled with embarrassment at her weakness.

“What are you talking about?” Clarke asks her, her blue eyes alight with _life_ , her lips pulled down in confusion, her forehead furrowed. Lexa can’t help it—she reaches out and presses against the folds between Clarke’s eyebrows, smoothing away the frown, her fingertips tingling because ghost-Clarke did not dissipate like she half expected her to, but instead feels solid and warm.

“How are you _real_?” she whispers, and she can hear a gasp from somewhere to her right, and she knows the wetness on her cheeks is from free-falling tears, and she knows she has failed her people because she is being weak, is unable to hide her pain and anguish, and yet—at this moment—she also does not care. “You _died_. _I_ killed you.” She does not know why Clarke’s eyes fill with tears, but unlike Lexa, she makes no effort to hide her feelings (a trait she was always envious of, always so impressed with).

“You have to give me more credit than that,” Clarke says, smiling weakly. “I wasn’t going to die just because you left.” Something between a sob and a laugh escapes Lexa, and she grabs Clarke by the shoulders and pulls her into an embrace, not caring what it looks like to her people, not caring that she is wearing her emotions on her sleeve ( _it is a strength_ , she thinks, _it is a mark of strength_ ). “I understand,” Clarke whispers in her ear, hugging her back just as tightly, “I understand. You did what you had to.”

Lexa does not respond (because Clarke is _wrong_ but also right, and there will be plenty of time to talk later). Instead, she grips tighter to the blonde with the blue eyes, and she revels in the feeling of Clarke’s heart beating in time with her own. _Alive_ , Lexa thinks.

Clarke is _alive_. (And Lexa is no longer drowning).


	9. doctor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact: so this fic was split into two files, one called 'doc story part 1' and the other called 'doc story part 3' and though I'm fairly certain part 3 is actually part 2, I also think there was an actual part 3 at one point? but I don't know. undergrad me had no respect for future me and my absolute lack of recollection

She likes to eat lunch by the lake. It’s calm, completely peaceful, and Clarke always feels relaxed and reinvigorated by the time she has to return to the hospital. It’s not that she doesn’t love her job, because she does, but she likes the fact that for an hour each day, she’s not “Dr. Griffin,” she’s just some random person sitting by the lake, eating her lunch.

Of course, on days like today, she finds herself questioning the habit. It’s freezing, and very few people were stupid enough to brave the weather. There’s a professionally dressed woman talking on her phone as she paces away by a bench, two little boys who are chasing each other around the frozen lake (which makes Clarke nervous because she has a patient right now being treated for hypothermia), and a couple who are strolling aimlessly, hand in hand. Clarke takes a bite of her sandwich and watches with interest as the professionally dressed woman tugs on her hair in frustration, clearly fed up with the conversation she was having.

The thought that she’s being creepy flits briefly through Clarke’s mind before she decides she doesn’t care. She’s on her _lunch break_. Anything goes during lunch.

It’s probably because she’s so busy watching the woman yell at someone over the phone that she doesn’t notice that the two boys have stopped running around. In fact, it’s not until Clarke hears one of the little boys shout for help that she realizes her worries from before were well-founded: one of the kids fell into a _frozen over lake._

_Where are their fucking parents?_ Clarke wants to scream as she kicks off her shoes and shrugs off her jacket before running towards the boy who’s still yelling about his friend falling into the lake.

“Please help him! We were just playing, we didn’t know the ice would break! Nick doesn’t even know how to swim!” Clarke shoves her phone at the boy not acknowledging his comment (because _of course_ the two boys would play around a frozen lake and not even know how to swim).

“Call 911,” she tells him hurriedly, and without bothering to wait for a response, she jumps into the icy water.

Her first thought, stupidly, is that it’s _cold_ (an insane, completely consuming, terrifying, cold) immediately followed by how this would be a ridiculous way to die. _Doctor From Local Hospital Dies In Attempt to Save Stupid Little Boy From Drowning/Hypothermia_ the headlines would read, and Clarke can already imagine the disappointed shake of her mother’s head (“The least Clarke could’ve done is _save_ the boy, but she _had_ to screw up and die before she reached him,” the elder Dr. Griffin would say to anyone who’d listen). Thankfully, the cold is too consuming for her to continue with that line of thought, so she focuses on grabbing Nick and getting the hell out of there. It takes her a second to notice that he’s suspended in the water several feet away from her, clearly unconscious.

With a burst of energy she didn’t know she was capable of, Clarke swims over to him, grabs him by the jacket, and swims back over to the hole in the ice, dragging Nick with her. When they break the surface of the water, Clarke’s barely aware of someone grabbing her and pulling her and Nick out of the water. All she knows is that she needs to get the boy to a flat surface, that she _has_ to administer CPR, that if the fucking wind didn’t stop blowing, the two of them would literally freeze to death. 

A harrowing minute of compressions later, Nick is coughing up water, his friend is crying, and the professionally dressed woman is wrapping Clarke up with a jacket, while the hand-holding couple help Nick and his friend. And for whatever reason (though Clarke thinks it’s a combination of the adrenaline rush, the cold, and the fact that she never got to eat her damn lunch), her world goes black and she passes out.

**xxx**

Lexa’s witnessed many acts of stupidity that’s made her marvel at the fact that the human race has managed to survive for so long, but after watching the blonde woman in scrubs jump into an icy lake, she wonders if stupidity is just another word for brave.

(She still marvels that the human race has managed to survive, but that’s not the point).

The first thing she does is hang up on Indra—the woman, despite being talented at what she does, is infuriating at best—and then she runs over to the edge of the lake, where water is lapping up against the broken ice. There’s a little boy standing there as well, a phone held limply in his hand, his eyes on where the blonde jumped in.

“Did you call 911?” Lexa asks him, and he looks up at her with shock.

“Not my phone. Nick can’t swim,” he says, and Lexa figures he’s in shock. She takes the phone from him and shoves it into her pocket, and then places a hand on the boy’s shoulder.

“What’s your name? Is Nick your friend?” The boy shakes his head.

“Dylan. He’s my brother,” he says tonelessly. “What if she can’t save him?” Tears fill his eyes, and Lexa feels helpless. She can barely take care of an emotional Anya (and Anya’s version of ‘emotional’ is total, awkward silence) so she has no idea how to react to the crying boy. She’s spared any agonizing over her failure with children because there’s movement in the water, and Lexa can see a blonde head emerge. She rushes forward, grabs the woman by the arm, and pulls her and the little boy out.

“CPR,” the woman says, pulling on Nick’s body to get him away from the water. “Compressions, airway, breathing,” she mutters, and Lexa watches in amazement as this soaking wet woman ignores the cold and begins chest compressions. Somehow the sight spurs something in her, and she calls out to the two idiots who’re just idly standing by, and then shrugs off her jacket, wrapping it around the blonde.

Everything else is a blur: Nick coughs up water, Dylan starts to _bawl_ (where were their fucking parents?), someone calls 911, there’s a blaring of an ambulance (Lexa’s never been more glad that the hospital is literally across the street), and the blonde woman in the scrubs passes out, collapsing onto Lexa.

When the paramedics arrive, they take the blonde (who they call Dr. Griffin) and the little boy to the hospital, leaving Lexa there alone, wet, annoyed, and late for work.

She wonders if it’s telling that this is one of her better Mondays.

**xxx**

She calls in sick—“What’re you talking about, Lexa? I saw you an _hour_ ago, how the hell are you _sick_?” Anya says before Lexa rolls her eyes and hangs up—and goes to the hospital.

She wants to return the blonde woman’s phone and get her jacket back. That’s it. She’s being a good Samaritan, really. After all, she could’ve _stolen_ the phone. She could’ve sold it. If the damn phone didn’t have a passcode, she could’ve accidentally-on-purpose programmed in her number…. Pushing aside all the things she ‘could’ve done,’ Lexa enters the hospital hesitantly, uncomfortably aware that she’s wet, lacking a jacket, and holding onto two phones.

“Can I help you?” a dark-haired woman in scrubs asks as Lexa aimlessly looks around, unsure where to go.

“I’m looking for Dr. Griffin?” She doesn’t know why she phrases it as a question (is she not _sure_ that she’s looking for the blonde who jumped into the icy lake?) and the dark-haired woman ( _Raven,_ her badge reads) seems to share this confusion, because she blinks several times and frowns.

“ _Okay_ ,” she says, stressing the word unnecessarily. She turns and immediately claps her hands together. “Oh hey! Abby! Someone’s here to see you!” Lexa feels her heart begin to race (though she isn’t sure why) and she searches for the blonde. Instead, a small, brown-haired woman with a clipboard approaches them, an unusually stern look on her face.

“Dr. Griffin is a blonde,” Lexa protests quietly, and Raven snorts.

“Oh, you’re looking for Griffin Junior?” She turns back to look at the doctor walking towards them. “Never mind Abby. She’s here for Clarke.” Lexa ignores satisfaction that fills her at knowing the blonde’s name and instead watches as Abby Griffin shakes her head disappointedly.

“My daughter’s been admitted for observation. Room 2231.” She clicks her tongue, taps her clipboard, and walks off, clearly having better things to do than worry about why someone would be looking for her daughter. Lexa, however, is suddenly anxious for the woman she doesn’t even know.

“So what do you want to see Clarke for?” Raven asks conversationally, crossing her arms over her chest. If it weren’t for the suspicious look on her face, Lexa would have thought that Raven was just being friendly.

“I brought her phone,” Lexa answers, refusing to be intimidated by this woman. She’s dealt with the likes of Anya and Indra on a daily basis—Raven is nothing in comparison.

“Hold on, I know who you are!” Raven says, her suspicious look falling away and letting out a laugh. “You’re the ‘professionally dressed woman!’” She eyes Lexa’s clothes (wet and clinging to her), laughs again, and shakes her head. “ _You’re_ the reason Clarke was admitted.”

“Excuse me?”

“She woke up for like a minute, and that’s all she said. Abby worried she might have brain damage or something because of prolonged hypoxia—none of us knew how long she’d been underwater.” Raven is grinning, and Lexa can feel the beginnings of a frown form on her own face. 

“Is she okay?” Lexa asks, unnerved by how much amusement this woman is getting out of the situation. Raven looks surprised by her concern.

“What? Yeah, she’s totally fine. She apparently didn’t hallucinate you or whatever, so that’s a good sign.” Lexa blinks, unsure how to respond to that.

“So, uh, where’s room 2231?”

“Go down this hallway, take the elevator up to the second floor, and turn to the left. Tell the nurse—her name is Monroe—that Raven said screw the visitation rules.” Lexa nods her thanks and moves to walk away when Raven speaks up again. “You should stay till she wakes up!” Raven doesn’t laugh this time, but she sounds more than a little amused, so Lexa doesn’t respond. Instead, she begins to mentally rearrange her schedule for the rest of the day, making a note to call Anya and cancel their dinner plans. 

(She tells herself that it’s not a big deal, that she’s just returning a phone and checking up on a fellow good Samaritan—there’re so few of them, they have to look out for each other, after all).

(She knows she’s lying to herself, but that’s not the point).

**xxx**

She wakes up to someone whispering furiously under their breath.

“Dammit, Anya… _no_ , I told you _no_ …this has nothing to do with that!” Clarke licks her lips, confused by the speaker, and vaguely wondering if she was under water longer than she thought. She’s lying on something soft and comfortable, but she doesn’t know what. Maybe she’s dead, she thinks, and—when the furious whispering continues—maybe the Grim Reaper is forced to deal with just as much drama as living people.

“I need to get back to the hospital,” she says without opening her eyes. The whispering stops immediately.

“You _are_ in the hospital,” the Grim Reaper says, his voice softer, kinder, and much more feminine than Clarke ever imagined, and she can feel him step closer to her bed (because her brain has finally caught up to her senses, and she realizes she _must_ be lying on a hospital bed). Perhaps this is it, she thinks, perhaps the Grim Reaper will end things now, perhaps—once she’s dead—Raven will finally admit she ate the last donut even though she swore it was Octavia. “You’re going to be okay, Dr. Griffin.” Clarke doesn’t think the Grim Reaper would bother with degrees and titles, and she _knows_ no one in the hospital would call her Dr. Griffin (because that’s her mother, and it’s common knowledge that she is _not_ her mother), so Clarke opens her eyes to figure out who the hell is about to end her life.

It’s _not_ the Grim Reaper.

“No, I don’t think so,” the woman says with a shake of her head, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. Clarke is confused by the comment until she realizes she must have spoken aloud. She blushes deeply, giving the woman her best grin in apology. It must work, because the professionally dressed woman she’d been staring at creepily during her lunch break offers her a small smile in return. “I brought your phone.”

“Why do you have my phone?” she asks as she sits up in the bed, leaning back against the headboard. The professionally dressed woman leans with her hip pressed slightly against the bed’s railing, her arms crossed over her chest. 

“I took it from Dylan. He didn’t seem at all inclined to call 911.” The comment is said drily, with a slight roll of her eyes, and Clarke laughs despite herself. “And, I don’t know, between the chest compressions, you passing out, and the paramedics hauling you to the hospital, it slipped my mind to return it.”

“Thank you _so_ much.” The professionally dressed woman looks vaguely uncomfortable by Clarke’s gratitude, but she nods in response.

“It’s not that big of a deal,” she says after a second.

“Of course it is! You could’ve _stolen_ it.” For whatever reason, this makes the woman let out a laugh, and Clarke’s surprised by the way her features change. She’s all edges, looking like she half-expects to be attacked any moment. Her shoulders are set and her back is stiff. But when she laughs, the edges are worn away, the defensive posture slips, and Clarke can’t help but think that she’s _beautiful_. 

“It was no problem,” she says lightly, smiling. “I’m glad you’re doing okay. Jumping in after that boy was brave.” She smirks and the sight of it makes Clarke’s heart beat just a tad quicker (and she didn’t even know what was funny).

“I’m a doctor. Beneficence and all that, you know,” Clarke says, shrugging. This makes the woman roll her eyes.

“Being a doctor doesn’t mean you have to risk your life to save someone. It’s okay to have partial adherence to the concept of beneficence—you didn’t have the duty to rescue.” Clarke raises an eyebrow, and the woman lets out a tiny laugh. “Sorry, I took a medical ethics class in college.” Clarke laughs, unable to help it.

“All of that is just a way to make people feel better about not helping,” she says with a wave of her hand. “Besides, you must be the same age as me. How can you even _remember_ what you did in college?”

“Do you feel the same way about medical school? Because if that’s the case, I don’t think I’d want you as my doctor.” Clarke snorts, and the woman looks pleasantly surprised that she elicited such a reaction.

“Medical school was only two years ago, so that’s different. And I wouldn’t treat you anyway. I’m in the pediatric residency program.”

“That doesn’t make it better,” the woman says, shaking her head and laughing. And when Clarke’s chest tightens, when it becomes a little harder to breathe, she realizes she doesn’t just think that this woman is beautiful.

“Okay, if you can pass judgments on me, I can do it to you. What do you do?”

“I’m a lawyer.”

“ _Oh_. Well, then. That makes perfect sense.” The woman’s eyes narrow, but she doesn’t look like she’s actually offended. “So you yell at witnesses all day?” She seems confused, and Clarke shrugs. “Sorry, I know next to nothing about lawyers. Everything I know is from that Tom Cruise movie.”

“Being a lawyer isn’t quite like that,” she says, smiling. “It’s more paperwork and reading than anything else.”

“That sounds boring. At least as a doctor, I get to be thrown up on every now and then. Spices things up a bit.” When the professionally dressed woman laughs, Clarke feels a vague sense of satisfaction—it’s become a game, figuring out how to make this woman laugh. With each success, Clarke can see her visibly relax; she leans even more into the railing, her stiff posture loosens even further, and her smiles widen, her laughs become more open (like she’s not afraid to show she’s amused).

And, honestly, Clarke can see herself playing this game for quite some time (which, really, coupled with the tightness in her chest, is a _terrifying_ thought).

She wants to say something—anything—to make this go on longer, but before she can get a word out, the professionally dressed woman gives her an apologetic smile.

“I wish I could stay longer, Dr. Griffin—”

“Clarke,” she interrupts. The woman looks surprised. “Call me Clarke. You pulled me out of the water, I think we’re on a first name basis.” She laughs (and Clarke feels a little giddy) and nods, holding out a hand.

“That’s fair. I’m Lexa.” _Lexa’s_ (it’s a beautiful name, and it suits her—short, simple, to the point—and Clarke wants to say it again and again ) smile falters briefly when she takes her hand, but she doesn’t give Clarke any time to question why. “I have to go. Work is calling,” Lexa says, indicating her phone, and Clarke remembers the whispered conversation she was having earlier, and the argument she was having during lunch. So she nods.

“Thank you, you know, for everything.” 

“Try not to jump into anymore frozen lakes, okay?” Without waiting for a response, Lexa grabs her jacket and she’s gone.

Clarke sits there for a minute, a little shocked by Lexa’s abrupt departure, before she runs her fingers through her hair and gets up, fully intending to make sure Nick is okay before getting back to work.

xxx

“You’ve been _admitted_ , Clarke. It means you _can’t_ work. It means you need to _stay_ in bed. You _know_ this.” Clarke blinks, frustrated with the way her mother is speaking to her.

“But what about Nick?”

“As I’ve said _three_ times, Clarke, he is fine. Mild hypothermia, nothing a few heated blankets and warm liquids couldn’t fix. He’ll be discharged the day after tomorrow. _Like you_.”

“But the chest compressions—are his ribs okay?” Her mother lets out a sigh, clearly unwilling to continue the conversation.

“Clarke, _rest_. You jumped into a frozen lake today. Take a break, please.” She doesn’t bother waiting for a response; she just picks up her clipboard and walks out of Clarke’s room, muttering something to Raven—who’s leaning against the doorway—on her way out.

“Couldn’t have said anything in my defense, huh?” Clarke asks her accusingly, giving her a glare for good measure. Raven just laughs.

“Just because your professionally dressed woman left you in a bad mood doesn’t mean you can take it out on me.” Clarke feels her cheeks heat up.

“Lexa didn’t—”

“—oh so she has a name now, huh?” Raven interrupts, stepping forward and sitting down on the chair next to the bed, but Clarke pays her no attention, and continues as if she hadn’t heard a thing.

“—leave me in a bad mood, she just _left_. Without so much as a goodbye.” Raven frowns thoughtfully.

“Well, to be fair, I told her to stay till you woke up. We now know she’s _incredibly_ literal.” Clarke scowls, and Raven laughs. “Clarke, if you wanted her to stay, why didn’t you just ask?”

“Because that would be _weird_ , right? I mean, we just met. I didn’t even know her name until she was about to leave!”

“You met because she pulled you out of a freezing lake. Your relationship is way beyond weird already.” Raven grabs Clarke’s hands and squeezes them. “Don’t blame not asking her to stay on social conventions when you’re really just scared.”

“I’m not scared. _I’m not_ ,” she insists when Raven just gives her a dubious look.

“Finn was—”

“I know exactly when and what he was, Raven,” Clarke snaps, pulling her hands away roughly. “I don’t need a reminder every other day.”

“You obviously do, because you haven’t moved on. _I_ have. But you haven’t.”

“Because you forgave him. You _told_ him you forgave him. _I_ didn’t and then I watched him die.” Raven’s features soften, and though Clarke is glaring at her determinedly, she grabs her hands again, squeezing them so tightly that Clarke thinks she’s cut off circulation.

“He knew, Clarke. You stayed with him to the end, he knew what that meant.” Clarke knows it isn’t true—he was barely aware of anything towards the end, and had no idea who was with him—but she offers Raven a watery smile anyway. Because it’s clear she’s _trying_ —trying to help her move on, trying to take away her guilt, trying to offer her an absolution she doesn’t deserve.

“So… _you_ told her to stick around till I woke up, huh?” Raven chuckles.

“She seemed rather worried. I thought it couldn’t hurt.” Clarke straightens, suddenly more invested in the conversation.

“She was worried?”

“Yeah, really anxious,” Raven says with a smirk. “You must have made an impression.”

“Jumping into a frozen lake will do that for you,” Clarke says thoughtfully, trying to imagine the stoic Lexa looking worried. Her heart thuds in her chest, and she wonders if there’s something wrong with her. “Her eyes were so green,” she murmurs, and Raven snorts.

“I’ll take that as my cue to leave.” She bends forward and pulls Clarke into a hug. “I’m glad you didn’t die of hypothermia,” she says, and it’s because she turns her face away when she pulls back that Clarke knows Raven’s being completely, totally sincere. The issue was just that Raven didn’t mix well with emotions, her first instinct being to hide her feelings with gruffness. The lack of eye contact, the awkward hug, and her flippant remark makes Clarke realize that her “mild case of hypothermia” was either not so mild, or whatever condition she came in really scared her best friend—something Clarke didn’t think was possible.

“I guess you owe Lexa, too,” Clarke jokes, deciding to spare Raven the horror of talking about how they _felt_ (to spare herself that horror too, but she doesn’t like to admit that to herself). 

“Professionally dressed woman has my undying gratitude,” Raven mutters drily. She moves the door and is about to walk out when she looks back with a wink. “And don’t hate on this mandatory time off. Think of it this way: You have a _whole_ day to catch up on TV.” When Clarke groans, Raven laughs and leaves.

Five minutes into whatever rerun is on, Clarke thinks she’s going to die of boredom.

xxx

Lexa is literally accosted the second she sits down on her usual bench for lunch.

“God, _finally_ ,” the dark-haired woman—Raven?—from the hospital says, clapping Lexa on the shoulder. “If I had to wait out here any longer, I’d freeze to death—a fate, coincidentally, you saved my best friend from.”

“I didn’t save Clarke, I—”

“You should continue your knight in shining armor shtick and keep her company today. Clarke’s dying.” Lexa—who was uninterested in the conversation at first—feels her head snap up at those words.

“What do you mean? She was fine yesterday.”

“Yeah, but that was _before_ she was forced to remain under observation for another day,” Raven says, her eyes glinting with something as she stares at Lexa. “She’s dying of boredom and you need to help her.”

“ _You’re_ her best friend, right? You do it,” Lexa mutters, turning back to her lunch. She ignores the lurch in her stomach at her own words—as if it was protesting the lie her tone implied (because she _sounds_ like she doesn’t care, when that couldn’t be further from the truth, she just doesn’t want to admit that to herself). Raven shakes her head sadly.

“Would King Arthur say something like that?”

“Excuse me?”

“Look, I’m going to be completely honest with you. Clarke _likes_ you, and she hasn’t liked anyone in some time. So if you like her too—which, I’m positive you do—then keep her company.” Lexa frowns.

“You’re positive I like her, are you?” she asks, trying to sound aloof and proud, but pretty sure she only manages to sound like she’s choking on something.

“I wouldn’t have sat here for three hours on my day off it I wasn’t positive.” Lexa snorts softly at the response and shakes her head.

“You wasted your time, Raven. I just helped her out of a frozen lake—I did what any other Good Samaritan would do.” Raven blinks at her owlishly, and then she lets out her own snort—one that is significantly louder and much more obtrusive than Lexa’s.

“You are a _liar_ ,” she says, her snort morphing into a bout of laughter, causing Lexa’s cheeks to flame. “I don’t think you saw your face when Abby mentioned that Clarke was admitted, professionally dressed woman—”

“—that’s not my name,” Lexa interjects, but Raven just waves off her interruption like she hadn’t even heard a thing.

“—you looked downright _devastated_. So do yourself a favor and go see her.” She doesn’t give Lexa the chance to argue; Raven just claps Lexa on the shoulder again before getting up and walking away, only offering up a wave in farewell.

When Lexa calls Anya to say that she’s sick but will most likely be better in a few hours—“What the actual fuck, Lexa? You know I know you’re not sick, what the hell is going on?”—she pretends it is just mildly telling that it took her only ten minutes to make up her mind to go see Clarke. But when she gets to the hospital and a young man named Monty grins at her and says that Raven told him to expect her, Lexa wonders if she knows what she’s getting herself into.

The answer to that question is a resounding no, Lexa decides when she knocks on Clarke’s door, and steps in after she hears a muffled, “Come in.” The blonde doctor is sitting cross-legged on her bed, staring at the television with a furious expression, and Lexa doesn’t think she’s ever seen anything quite as beautiful (and that thought terrifies her, so she pushes it away).

“You know, the least they could do is let people call in what episodes they want to watch. Like, I’m _tired_ of watching Monica and Chandler get together again and again.” Lexa laughs, and Clarke turns for the first time, her eyes widening slightly when she notices who’s entered her hospital room. “Hi! I’m sorry, I thought you were Raven. She’s a friend.”

“Yes, we’ve unfortunately met,” Lexa says, stepping forward and silently asking for permission to sit on the chair next to the bed. Clarke nods with a confused expression—though it’s quickly replaced with a heated look.

“Raven…what did she do?”

“She said that you were dying of boredom and needed company, and that I should continue my knight-in-shining-armor shtick and come save you.” Clarke stares at her for a whole minute with a completely blank expression, but then she bites her lips like she’s trying to keep herself from laughing.

“And you came?” she asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Since it’s apparently my fault you’re in here—because they believed you’d hallucinated the ‘professionally dressed woman’—I thought it was only right.” This causes Clarke to smile, and she switches off the television with a satisfied look.

“I’m sorry about Raven and for whatever else she told you,” she says, shifting in her bed so that she’s facing Lexa, the IV in her hand forcing her move carefully so that the line wouldn’t be tugged. “What else did she tell you?” Clarke asks suspiciously, her eyes narrowing.

“Nothing really,” Lexa answers quickly, hating that her cheeks heat up slightly at her own lie. _I’m a lawyer—I’m better than this_ , she thinks to herself fiercely. “Just that I needed to be more like King Arthur.” Clarke snorts.

“Yeah, Raven went through a Camelot phase a few years ago. I’m pretty surprised she didn’t crack any Monty Python and the Holy Grail jokes.” Lexa smiles at the fondness that laces Clarke’s tone, and if Raven hadn’t pushed her to come here because she was sure Clarke liked Lexa, she thinks she would have been jealous.

The thought brings her up short, and she has to take a deep breath to calm her quickly fraying nerves.

“So the two of you have been friends for a while then, right?” she asks, hoping Clarke doesn’t notice the slight pause.

“Oh yeah. I met her in college. We—well, we met because of a weird circumstance.” Lexa nods, and doesn’t press further—it’s obvious that Clarke doesn’t want to discuss it.

“I work with my best friend, too. But she’s nothing like Raven,” Lexa says conversationally, thinking about Anya and the frustration in her tone with Lexa lied to her for a second day in a row (eventually, she knows, she will have to tell Anya about the lake and Clarke, but she wants to postpone that for as long as possible). “She’s a little more…serious.”

“Well, you’re pretty serious, too,” Clarke says, and Lexa would think it was an insult if it weren’t for the way Clarke’s eyes light up as she speaks.

“Is that a bad thing?” she asks, studying Clarke’s face, searching for the lie.

“No.” She stops, frowns, and breaks eye contact. “Well, I mean, if you were serious _all_ the time, maybe? But you have that dry, sarcastic sense of humor, you know? It’s nice.” Lexa suppresses her grin at Clarke’s words.

“So spending the last few minutes trying to remember the ‘‘tis but a flesh wound’ quote from Monty Python wasn’t even necessary?” Clarke laughs, and to Lexa’s ultimate shock, reaches out and places a hand on Lexa’s arm. Lexa’s breath hitches at the surprising (and _warm_ ) contact, but Clarke either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, because she doesn’t let go.

“I can already tell. You and Raven are going to get along _really_ well, and I’ll be out two friends.” Lexa frowns, because though they’re said lightly, there’s a tinge of actual worry lacing the words. She moves her arm slightly so that she’s holding onto Clarke’s hand, and she gives her a smile she hopes is reassuring and not just strange-bordering-on-creepy.

“I don’t think that could happen.” Clarke smiles, and her blue eyes light up, and it’s with a sinking feeling that Lexa realizes she’s in trouble.

But Clarke’s hand is soft and warm, she told Anya she’d be gone for a few hours, and her heart clenches at the very thought of leaving, so Lexa shoves the terror and fear that fills her belly and decides to stay.

(She still wonders if she knows what she’s getting herself into).


	10. weightless

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact: I'm not quite sure when I wrote this, but it was soon after lexa was offed in the show (maybe the next day?). I do remember exactly where I was, though. at the hospital, getting treatment, furiously typing away on my phone while nurses laughed at me. so here's a brag about my commitment to this character and pairing

Death is weightless. 

She is floating on air, aware only of a gentle sway, a careful rise and fall, and a warm pressure that reminds her of summer days laying on her back, facing the sky, reveling in a moment of respite from Anya's training and the watchful eyes of the other Nightbloods. 

Death is weightless, and she is grateful. Because for as long as she can remember, she has been burdened by a weight she is too frail and too weak to carry. For as long as she can remember, she has struggled, she has fought, and now...now that fight was finally over. And Lexa is not ashamed of feeling relieved. 

The gentle sway, the careful rise and fall, the warm pressure, it all disappears at once, and she becomes aware of something soft beneath her, the rustling of leaves, grass beneath her fingertips. But Lexa does not dare open her eyes. (Death is weightless, she is grateful for it, but she is not ashamed to admit she is afraid—not ashamed for there is no one she must be strong for anymore.) 

"Your fight is over,  _ Lexa kom Trikru.  _ But it is not yet your time." The voice is achingly familiar, and Lexa's heart batters away against her ribs, but still, she dares not open her eyes. "Come, open your eyes." But Lexa keeps them tightly closed, for she has embraced death, it is weightless, and she has no wish to be burdened anymore. 

The silence (and darkness) stretches on for so long that she is sure the achingly familiar voice (and the person it belongs to) is gone. But then she feels fingers gently run through her hair, feels a thumb ghost over her lips, feels the soft press of a kiss against her forehead. And Lexa cannot help it. 

She opens her eyes. 

She expects what she sees, or rather, who she sees. Because the achingly familiar voice is one she has heard often in her dreams (and nightmares). The soft brush of her hair, the ghosting over her lips, the press of a kiss to her forehead, she has committed those actions to memory, has never allowed a second of those feelings elicited to slip from her fingertips, for it was the only connection she had for so long. But now, now she opens her eyes and she sees Costia, a brilliant (and sad) smile on her face, her brown eyes full of tears, her dark curly hair offering a curtain of safety. Now, she opens her eyes, and it is not memory she calls upon, but her senses. For Costia is real, she is here, and death is weightless. 

"I'm dead," Lexa murmurs, but Costia merely continues to smile her brilliant sad smile. 

"It is not yet your time," she says, her fingers resuming their stroking through Lexa's hair. "You know that."

"But I'm dead."

"Yes,  _ heda _ is dead." 

"I have missed you, Costia." Death is weightless, she is grateful for it, she is no longer afraid to admit how she feels. "I loved you so much."

"I know." Costia pulls away, and she gets to her feet, offering Lexa a hand. After a moment of hesitation, Lexa takes it, allowing Costia to pull her up, taking in her surroundings for the first time. 

They're standing at the top of a grassy knoll, there are people (many, many people) who litter the base of the hill, and beyond that Lexa only sees trees, densely packed and dark, making her immediately look away and turn to Costia. 

"Where are we?" she asks softly, but Costia does not answer, she merely tightens her grip on Lexa's hand (for she has not let go and Lexa has no intention of asking her to) and she pulls Lexa closer to her, so that their foreheads are pressed together. 

"I am so proud of you," she says, reaching up with her free hand and wiping a stray tear from Lexa's cheek. "And I love you, Lexa. With all my heart." She steps back, tethered only to Lexa by their still linked hands. "But it is not yet your time, and you know that too." She lets go before Lexa can protest, before she can cry out, before she can do anything, and where Costia stood moments earlier, there is nothing at all. 

Lexa falls to her knees, her heart racing and her chest aching, wondering how death could be weightless if it caused so much pain, wondering why she was still struggling to quell her sobs when there was no one to witness her weakness. 

"Unburden yourself, Lexa," another voice says, a heavy but comforting weight settling onto her shoulder. "There is strength in pain." Lexa turns her head, her heart ramming to a halt at the sight of Gustus behind her, and next to him, with her arms crossed and a displeased expression on her face, is Anya. 

"Get to your feet," Anya chastises, rolling her eyes. "It is as if you've forgotten all our teachings. A warrior never stays down." 

"My fight is over," Lexa says, but she gets to her feet anyway, trembling before her most trusted mentors, wracked with guilt and bursting with apologies. "I am no longer a warrior." 

"Oh, child," Gustus says, chuckling, making Lexa ache for the days when he would tutor her on politics and strategy, supplementing his instruction with jokes and candied fruits and nuts, for the days he would press his hand to the top of her head and fondly call her 'child.' "You will always be a warrior."

"Excuses, she always had so many excuses," Anya says, but there's a smile on her lips (a smile she attempts to hide, unsuccessfully). 

"Where are we?" she asks, but much like Costia, they do not answer her. Instead, Anya crouches down so that they are eye level, and she holds Lexa's gaze, the displeased look on her face gone to be replaced by a slight sympathetic smile. 

"Rise to your feet, warrior. There is much more to be done." 

"But I am dead." 

"Yes,  _ heda _ is dead," Gustus supplies. "The ones who love you have come to bear witness to that." He gestures to the large mass of people at the bottom of the hill, gestures to the lone figure who stands just a little further ahead of them, a figure Lexa would recognize any time: Costia. 

"I don't understand," she finally manages to say. "Where am I? Who are those people?" 

"They are your people," Anya says, forcing Lexa to meet her gaze once more. "They are those who fought and died for you, for their love of you. They are those who wish to bid farewell to their  _ heda _ ." 

"How can they love me if I am the one they died for?" The words come out bitterly, a thought she has always buried deep in her mind, springing out here now, when death is weightless and there is no reason to hide her shames, her weaknesses. 

"You are special, Lexa," Gustus says, "and they know this. As I know this, as Anya knows." 

"How?" Lexa demands. "How am I special? Tell me that."

"You brought peace."

"I brought war!" she cries, her voice shrill, her hands shaking. "I shed blood, I killed, tore apart lives. I am not special, I am the same as any other Commander." 

" _ Heda _ is dead, Lexa," is the only response she gets, Anya's tone flat and unimpressed. 

"I know." 

" _Heda_ _Leksa_ is a legend, and she is special. Look how many have loved her, look at how many still believe in her," Gustus says as he removes his hand from her shoulder, stepping around her and falling to his knees in front of her. "But Lexa," he says softly, "you do not belong here, not yet, and you know this." 

"I am dead."

"Your fight is over, Lexa," Anya says. "But it is not yet your time." Lexa gets to her feet and turns away harshly, unwilling to listen, unwilling to care. She steps away from them, head in her hands, unsurprised when, barely a minute later, she turns around and Anya and Gustus are gone, having joined Costia near the base of the hill. 

But she doesn't remain alone for long. 

She recognizes the woman, but only just. She has seen her, with her strong jaw and dark eyes, and tortured expression, many times in her dreams: the first Commander. 

She is wearing a long white coat over black clothes, different from what Lexa has seen her in before (practical clothes suited to a Commander, a warrior). But there is a soft smile on her face, something vulnerable and teary in her eyes, and Lexa finds herself approaching the other woman. The woman who is like her, the woman whose Spirit Lexa carried for years. (The woman, she thinks, that is at fault for the weight she was forced to carry on her frail and flimsy shoulders.) 

"Do you know who I am?" the woman asks, and Lexa nods. 

"Yes," she adds unnecessarily. They stare each other down, and then, the woman reaches out, her fingertips barely brushing the skin of Lexa's cheek. 

"I'm Becca," she mutters, looking at Lexa almost...reverently. "And I've been waiting a long time for you, Lexa." 

"Why?" 

"You're a visionary, a revolutionary. A legend in the making. You...well, you're my only success." Lexa stares at her, not speaking, and Becca laughs. "So intelligent, so brilliant, and so young." The last part is said with more than a little regret, more than a little guilt. As if she is the reason Lexa is the way she is (and Lexa knows, it is because of this Becca woman. It is all because of her). 

"What do you want from me?" Lexa asks, unwilling to play whatever game the first Commander is playing, unwilling to drag this longer than necessary. 

"You have it wrong, Lexa. You should ask what I'm willing to do for you."

"I don't understand." Becca nods, pulling her hand away, but not stepping back, not breaking their gaze. 

"I've done things in my life," she says, licking her lips as she pauses and then bravely pushing on, "that I'm not proud of. Things that I regret. Much like you, I suppose." 

"I did what I had to."

"As do we all. But you know as well as I do, that just because we have to do it, it doesn't make it easier." 

"What are you trying to say?" 

"You've been taught something. It's been hammered into you from the moment you became Commander. Love is—" 

"Weakness," Lexa finishes for her, nodding and narrowing her eyes. 

"Yes. I thought that it would make things easier. To do what had to be done. To make difficult choices. We had to care, but love? Love would break us." 

"It does break us."

"Do you truly believe that? Do you really think love is weakness?" 

"Yes," Lexa says, because death is weightless, she is grateful for it, and she sees no issues with telling the first Commander the truth. "It makes us weak. But it's worth it." This answer must be what Becca was waiting for, because her eyes widen, and a grin appears, something lighting up on her features.

"My greatest success," she says with a laugh, hands on Lexa's shoulders now. "That is what makes you different from the rest of us. For almost a hundred years, I was waiting for someone like you." 

"I don't understand." 

"I created the Spirit, as you call it, because I wanted to help people, I wanted to make this world a better place. And I failed the first time." She shakes her head, smiling softly at Lexa. "The second time, I knew it was different, that it could work, but things had changed. I had created something that could save mankind, only to teach it and the one who carried it to shed the one thing that made humanity special. And so people suffered." 

"Where am I?" Lexa asks, and I like Costia, Gustus, and Anya, the first Commander answers. 

"You're in between," she says. "The Commander is dead, but Lexa lives on, and you must make a choice." 

"What sort of choice?"

"Stay here, surrounded by the ones you love and who love you, or go back. Go back as Lexa and not as  _ heda."  _ She has no idea how to respond, frozen by the choice she has just been offered. 

"Are you offering this because you think I'm different?" 

"I offer this to every Commander, but none have said yes. I think you might be the first." 

"Because I'm a visionary?" Her tone is mocking, disbelieving, but the first Commander is unfazed. 

"No. Because there is so much more left for you." She moves so that she's standing beside Lexa, their eyes on the people at the base of the hill, at the smiles on Anya, Gustus, and Costia's faces. "Your people love you," Becca says softly. "You paved the way for them, showed them a new way. But our ways are harsh and change comes slowly. Be patient with them, Lexa. They're learning, they just need time. And you." 

"You'd have me go back for my people?"

"I'd have you go back because you have reason for it."

"Why did no other Commander agree to this deal then? They too had unfinished work, unfinished wars." 

"Can't you guess?" Becca asks, raising an eyebrow. "Why would they go back when everyone they loved was here?" 

"The same holds true for me."

"Does it? There's nothing waiting for you? Nothing worth living for? Not as  _ heda _ , but as Lexa?" 

"So which is it, are you asking me to go back for my people or for love?" Becca laughs, shaking her head and patting Lexa on the back. 

"There's this woman, a warrior, who brought peace and safety to those who'd lost it. She's a legend. And you know what her story has taught me?"

"What?" 

"That it is her love, her love for her people, her home, her world, that makes her special." She pats Lexa again, her smile fading just a little. "You have people who love you here, and I would not blame you if you stayed. But Lexa, you are special because you would not be alone if you went back." 

"But I died."

"The Commander died, yes. But what flows in your veins is more special than you realize. It helps you carry the Spirit, but it also will give you one last gift. A chance to be Lexa, just Lexa." 

"How?" Lexa croaks out, unsure what she's asking, but the first Commander seems to know. 

"Walk past your loved ones, your people. Lose yourself in the trees. And you will be home." 

Lexa doesn't bother answering, she does as she is told, her heart hammering away, her veins feeling like they're filled with fire, and she walks towards the people who love her, tears streaming freely down her cheeks. 

"We will wait," Gustus says, "until it is truly your time. Do not worry, child, you have much to live for." 

"Good, you have finally learned your lesson. Warriors never stay down," Anya grins. 

"I love you, Lexa," Costia murmurs. "And I am happy that you are happy again." 

She walks past the chants of  _ Heda Leksa  _ from her people, a chant that quickly changes to merely her name, and she steps into the dark, densely packed forest, unashamed to admit she is afraid. Unashamed to realize she is grateful. Unashamed that she looks back once, wiping her cheeks as she does so. 

She continues to walk until she feels an explosion of pain in her belly, until everything goes black, until she's once more laying back on something soft. 

She feels the furs of her bed beneath her fingertips. She feels a warm breath at her neck, a hand gripping her hand. And when she opens her eyes, she is unsurprised to be in her own room, with Clarke sleeping next to her, dried tears on her cheeks. 

"You're awake," someone whispers. It is a boy with shaggy brown hair, one she vaguely recognizes as one of Clarke's people, one of her own people. "You've been in a coma for days," he continues. "A kid named Aden became Commander. He...well, I don't know what he did. Something about not killing Nightbloods and honoring your legend. They gave you blood. Clarke got the bullet out and stopped the bleeding." Lexa nods, unsure how to tell the boy that she does not care for these things, just for the sleeping girl next to her. (After all, _Heda_ _Leksa_ is dead, but Lexa lives on.) "She was worried," the boys adds, shrugging. "I don't care for the princess, not really, but I'm glad you made it. I don't think she could have lost someone else she loves." He grins crookedly, his eyes on the odd way Clarke is sitting, her head pressed against Lexa's neck, the chair she is sitting on far too close to the bed for it to be comfortable for her back or legs. "If you want to wake her, I'll just...you know. Go." Lexa nods and the boy steps away, leaving her alone with Clarke. Gently, she shakes the girl's shoulder and Clarke sits up slowly, bones and joints cracking as she does so. It takes her a second to realize Lexa was the one who woke her. 

The smile Lexa gets is blinding, far more open than anything Clarke has offered before, and she is entirely thrown by the gentle way Clarke takes her hand and kisses each knuckle, blinking away tears as she does so. 

"I thought I'd lost you," she says, her voice barely a whisper. Lexa smiles. 

"My fight is over, Clarke. But it was not yet my time." 

(Death was weightless. But living, living is liberating.) 


	11. mini fics

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact: didn't think a question through and came out in a job interview. sure hope that doesn't affect my chances at getting the job!

FIRE AND FLAMES

She should’ve known better than to have let Octavia convince her coming would be a good idea.

She was aware, really, of two things: the sound of the water lapping against the shore (her own sudden desire to escape the heat of the bonfire and the sheer number of bodies that surrounded her and _escape_ further along the beach) and the spinning of her head, for which she blamed Raven and the fruity drinks—“Just drink it, Griffin, you lightweight, I _swear_ ”—she kept pressing into her hands in equal measure.

(She was also painfully aware of _the gaze_ , but she also was determined to pay it no mind.)

(The drunker she got, the harder that became.)

“You should at least talk to her,” Raven said, sitting down on the log next to Clarke, handing her another drink—this one less fruity, more alcoholic, though Clarke couldn’t bring herself to care anymore. “She only came because Octavia said you’d be here.”

“I don’t have anything to say to her,” Clarke insisted, closing her eyes and tilting her head back, trying to escape the heat of the fire, the way her skin bristled at its intensity. A cool breeze blew through, the sound of the lapping water overwhelmed the chatter of the people around her, and for a second, Clarke actually felt glad she came.

“Clarke.” She wanted to see if she could get away with ignoring her, but Raven was persistent, and after a rude elbow in her side, Clarke turned to Raven, feigning a disinterested expression. “ _Talk to her_.”

“It’s too hot to talk.”

“Then take a walk and talk to her.”

“Why do you care?”

“Because you’re my best friend and you’re miserable. And she’s a friend and she’s miserable. And all the misery is making me miserable.” At that, Clarke smiled, knocking her shoulder against Raven’s, focused only on one part of Raven’s comment, feeling a tad smug.

“I’m your best friend, am I?”

“Don’t let it go to your head, Griffin. Talk to her.”

“Why do I have to talk to her? Why can’t she come talk to me?”

“You’re the one avoiding her, Clarke,” Raven pointed out, rolling her eyes and facing the bonfire, waving her hand wildly above her head. Clarke watched with increasing anxiety as Lexa noticed Raven and began to walk towards them. “Stop being so stupid, she didn’t do anything,” Raven said, sounding like she could read Clarke’s mind.

“She _kissed_ me.”

“A long time coming, Griffin. The only one who’s still surprised you like her is you.”

“What if she says she regrets it?” It wasn’t only the fire that brought the heat to her cheeks, but she waited impatiently for Raven’s answer as she watched Lexa draw ever closer.

“If that’s what’s got you all jittery, Clarke, you’ve got nothing to worry about. Okay?”

“Raven—”

“You trust me?”

“Not at the moment, no.” Octavia, who’d approached them from behind, put her hands on Clarke’s shoulders and shook her.

“Oh my god, get up and go talk to her,” she hissed, but before Clarke could protest or at least flip Octavia off for the mistreatment, Lexa was standing in front of her, looking uncharacteristically uneasy, her hands clasped in front of her, her eyes never straying from Clarke’s.

“Can we talk?” she asked, her voice soft, barely audible over the chatter, the crackling of the flames, and the lapping of the water. Clarke’s mouth opened and closed, no sound coming out, and it was Raven who came to her rescue.

“She’s hot,” she said, shrugging when Octavia snorted. “Take a walk and talk.” Lexa nodded, taking a single step back, clearly waiting for Clarke to get to her feet, but Clarke was rooted to her log, suddenly quite fond of the heat of the bonfire and the bodies pressed tightly together (because it made it easier to hide from the look in Lexa’s eyes).

(She suddenly wasn’t drunk enough for this.)

“Up you get, Griffin,” Raven muttered, and she and Octavia pull her to her feet, pushing her forward when it looked like she was wavering and ready to flee. “Have a nice chat, you two,” Raven cackled, and before Clarke knew it, her feet were mindlessly following Lexa further down the beach, closer to the lapping water and chilly air, leaving the fire and warmth and noise behind.

They were silent for a long while, choosing to merely walk, eyes on everything but each other. In fact, it wasn’t until Clarke was sure she was ready to burst that the words came flowing out of her, rapid and practically incoherent.

“You kissed me and I didn’t mean to run away but you kissed me and holy fuck you’re supposed to give people a warning before you do something like that and I just didn’t want to hear you say you didn’t mean it and god, you _kissed me_.” Lexa’s eyes widened as she came to a stop, turning to Clarke with an indecipherable look.

“Why would I do something I didn’t mean?” she asked, frowning.

“I don’t know.”

“Do you want to know the truth?” she questioned, leaning forward, forcing Clarke to take a shaky step back.

“I mean, the truth is nice I guess,” Clarke muttered, somehow unable to look away from Lexa’s lips.

“See. There’s this girl I _really_ like. Infatuated with, really. She’s beautiful and smart and funny and kind, but she does this stupid thing when she gets nervous, and she’s been avoiding me for weeks now.”

“Infatuated, huh?” Clarke repeated, focused on only one part of Lexa’s comment.

“And if she just let me _talk_ ,” Lexa continued, now even closer, though this time Clarke didn’t back away, “she’d know that I’d never consider kissing her unless I absolutely meant it, and I really want to do it again if she let me.” Clarke blinked, her face flushed, unable to blame the heat of the bonfire for it.

“She’d let you,” she said, clearing her throat carefully, raising her chin. “I mean. I have it on good authority that she’d let you.”

“Yeah?”

“Oh my god, Lexa, enough warning, just kiss me.”

(And she really, really needed to thank Octavia for convincing her to come.)

SUBTLE KINDNESSES

She knows Clarke does it.

Actually, that’s not all that true. She _thinks_ she knows Clarke does it—she’s yet to catch the blonde in the act, mostly because Clarke is rather sneaky (far more sneaky than Lexa ever gave her credit for) and she manages to do the things she does without drawing any attention.

And quite frankly, it’s pissing Lexa off.

They don’t _hate_ each other, not really. But their relationship can be described as rocky at best (and to be perfectly honest, Lexa doesn’t think they’ve ever really been at their best). It all started the day Clarke came to teach at the middle school, replacing the aging and paranoid art teacher who believed her students were attempting to murder her (Lexa wouldn’t put it past the students to have made an attempt, but the principal of the school had been a little more skeptical, which is probably why Lexa wasn’t allowed an opinion on the matter). Since the art classes and English classes were held across from each other—a organization choice that Lexa never truly understood—Lexa thought she would extend an olive branch she’d never offered the aging paranoid art teacher, and actually speak with Clarke. But when she knocked on the door, offer of lunch together on her lips, the new blonde teacher literally _waved_ _her away_ , like she was a bug or pest (or worse yet, one of the middle schoolers).

And well, Lexa has a good memory (making her _stellar_ at holding grudges).

Thus began the war. Her kids took up the challenge with a zeal absent from their schoolwork, and every week there were new attempts to sabotage each other. One particularly memorable day, Aden (her favorite and best student, not that she ever let him know that, the insufferable kid would never let her live it down) replaced all the paint with dyed glue, and Clarke had glared at Lexa for _days_ afterward. (Lexa conveniently chose not to think about how the very next week, Charlotte—a tiny sixth grader Clarke was fond of—used that very same glue on Lexa’s class set of _The Giver_. She also chose not to think about how her classes cheered with joy and gifted Clarke a dozen apples because it meant their readings were pushed back until Lexa could get new copies of the book.) 

Basically, it boils down to suspicion and innate distrust, really. After months of war and dislike, she’s understandably…wary. She knows Clarke is doing it, she doesn’t understand why, and that freaks her out.

_It_ consists of oddly kind acts that has Lexa feeling sick to her stomach at the sweetness and angry because her heart does its little funny dance every time she sees Clarke in the hallway (and if that’s not totally inconvenient for their war, she doesn’t know what is).

First, there was her mail being collected for her on the days she avoids the teacher lounge because the principal (who never really liked her anyway) is on a rampage, ranting on about test scores. Then, there was the wiping down of her chalkboard in the afternoon, the set of _A Wrinkle in Time_ , and cookies from the math department’s monthly ‘extravaganza,’ something Lexa had never quite been willing to attend (which she thinks is a smart move, considering who teaches the math courses).

It’s the smiles in the hallway, the watching over her class the one time she’s running late, the whispers from her students who take art, claiming that Miss Griffin—who _never_ draws, which makes no sense if she’s an art teacher—has drawn _Lexa_.

Most damning of all, it’s the white flag Charlotte waves behind Lexa’s door one afternoon, giving her a toothy grin before she rushes back to her art class.

(The thought has occurred to her that Clarke is merely lulling her into a false sense of security, ripping the rug out from under her feet the second she lets her guard down, but the smile is disarming, and Lexa is weak, really. She falls for it—for Clarke—like it’s nobody’s business.)

(It’s so _inconvenient_.)

So, several days after Charlotte’s—or rather, Clarke’s—white flag, Lexa waits until the end of the day, when all her kids are out the door, ignoring Aden’s winks, before she treads across the hall and knocks on Clarke’s door.

(Clarke grins wide as she accepts the lunch offer.)

(Later, they’ll consider it their first date.)

ONE MISSED CALL

Her lungs burn as she runs, there’s an ache in her muscles, a tightness and weakness she’s unwilling to succumb to. She ignores the heaviness, the acid building up between the muscle fibers, the fact that her heart is beating erratically, practically begging for a moment of respite.

She runs, she runs, she runs, because it’s all she can do.

One call, she missed _one_ call, and it’s as if the sky itself is falling, as if the world is being torn apart, as if the ground beneath her feet is crumbling.

(She should never have left, she should never have agreed to this. She’d known, she’d _known_ better.)

She continues to run, ignoring the looks she gets on the street, racing towards the hospital. Even from the distance, she can make out Raven’s frame waiting right outside the sliding doors, clearly looking for her. (She should’ve been there, she thinks. This is her fault, she realizes. It was _one_ missed call. One.)

“Lexa!” Raven cries when she sees her. “I’m sorry, Lexa, I’m—”

“Later,” she huffs, skidding to a halt, grabbing her friend by the shoulders. “Where is she? Where’s Clarke?”

“Third floor, her mom is with her—” But Lexa isn’t listening anymore. She brushes past a few nurses, presses the button for the elevator, but as the seconds drag on, races up the stairs instead, ignoring the burning, ignoring the frantic worry, ignoring the should’ves and would’ves that wouldn’t leave her alone.

(One missed call. That was it. And it’d led to this.)

When she gets to the third floor, two nurses point her quickly towards the right room, and Lexa doesn’t bother waiting until she catches her breath, doesn’t bother with anything but rushing in, her eyes only on the woman on the bed, hair splayed out on the pillow, a sheen of sweat on her forehead.

“It’s about time you made it,” she jokes, though she’s wincing as she says it. “Thought I’d have to do this alone.”

“I can’t believe I listened to you,” Lexa manages, staggering over to her wife, grabbing her hand and feeling a surge of relief with Clarke squeezes it tightly. “I can’t believe I turned off my phone.”

“We have to name it Drama Queen. After you.” Lexa laughs, leaning forward and pressing a kiss to Clarke’s sweaty forehead, to her temple, her cheek, her chin, and then finally her lips, lingering there for a moment before kissing her again. “Did you run all the way to the hospital?”

“Traffic was a bitch, Clarke.”

“These contractions are a bitc—ahh.” She squeezes her eyes shut and her fingernails dig into Lexa’s hand. “Which one of us had the stupid idea to have kids? Not me, right? This is your fault, right?”

“Do you want it to be my fault?”

“Yeah.”

“Then it was my idea.” Clarke smiles and opens her eyes, tugging Lexa closer.

“Did you at least have fun?”

“Not nearly as much as I would’ve had you been there,” she answers easily, kissing her again. Clarke half-groans, half-laughs and her eyes squeeze shut.

“Good answer, bub,” she manages, mumbling curses under her breath. “Totally not worth it, Lexa, _totally not worth it._ Holy _fuck_.”

Many, many hours later, long after Lexa has lost all feeling in her hand, long after Clarke’s screams finally stop and are replaced by the wailing of the newborn, long after Raven snaps a picture of the new family and Abby congratulates them, long after they’re left alone, Lexa watches her wife cradle their young son. Lexa’s lungs burn, her heart feels as if it’s about to burst, and she’s vaguely sure there are tears in her eyes, but she doesn’t care. Because Clarke looks up at her, mouths that it was totally worth it, and Lexa can do nothing but swallow back the emotions that flood through her, realizing she could’ve missed all this because of one lousy missed call.

ABSENT LOOK OR TOUCH

Clarke is fairly sure that Lexa doesn’t even know she’s doing it.

Her eyes take on this faraway quality, her teeth bite into her bottom lip, and her thumb rubs mindless patterns into the back of Clarke’s hand (or whatever patch of skin Lexa can find). Since they’ve started dating (though honestly, it’d happened rather frequently before they were dating, too) it’s been happening all the time, and for the life of her, Clarke can’t figure out _why_.

She does it when they go on walks in the evening, when they’re watching television together after a long day, while she’s reading a book in bed and Clarke is pretending to sleep, when it’s been a bad day and she’s frustrated about something at work, when Clarke hugs her from behind as she makes breakfast, when they’re just chatting, when she’s upset or happy or just attempting to cheer Clarke up.

There’s no rhyme or reason to the habit. It just _is_. And each time Clarke tries to question her about it, Lexa blinks several times, the dreamy look in her eyes dissipating and turning into mild curiosity as she cocks her head to the side and listens intently to whatever Clarke is saying. She then has the audacity to seem _amused_ , as if Clarke is imagining the whole thing.

But the thing is, Lexa does it _all_ the time. So when Clarke recruits Raven’s help in getting picture of the absent look, it’s remarkably easy. Except, even when staring at proof, Lexa just shrugs, admitting she has no clue what’s going on.

The next time it happens—they’re eating dinner and Clarke is telling Lexa about the panicked phone call Octavia made to her earlier—she points to Lexa’s face, narrowing her eyes.

“That,” she says. “What is that? Are you zoning out?” She grimaces. “Admittedly, Octavia is boring, but—” She cuts herself off as Lexa leans forward, cupping her cheeks and staring determinedly in her eyes. She’s smiling, though there’s the slight pink tinge to her ears.

“I’m not zoning out,” she says, her thumbs rubbing mindless patterns into Clarke’s skin. “I’m just thinking about how much I love you.” Clarke feels her eyes widen at the confession, and she feels rather stupid about recruiting Raven’s help for this in the first place.

“That’s so cheesy,” she says once she finds her voice.

“I know.”

“I forgive you for it. You’re lucky I like cheesy.”

“I know. Thank you.”

“I love you, too. For the record.”

“Whew, what a relief. You were making me nervous there.”

“Dork.” 

She silences whatever Lexa has to say in response with a kiss.


	12. amnesiac aquaintances

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact: it is quite shocking to see how much my writing style has changed in like three/four years. I'm too wordy now. past me was like, a paragraph? five words will do. current me is like, paragraphs should be a page or bust

When she opens her eyes it is to the whitewashed walls of a hospital room. A young woman is curled up on the couch, fast asleep, and vases of flowers litter the table to her right. She blinks a few times, only then noticing the nurse who stands in the corner, writing down her vitals.

“You’re awake, Ms. Woods. That’s good. She was worried,” the nurse whispers, indicating the woman on the couch. “That’s the first nap I managed to convince her to take.”

“What happened to me?”

“You were in an accident. You had a nasty head injury.”

“Oh.”

“Can you tell me your date of birth?” Lexa rattles off her birthday and the nurse smiles. “Okay. I’m going to let the doctor know you’re awake. And give you some privacy with Dr. Griffin.” The nurse winks at her, but Lexa merely frowns.

“I’m sorry. Who’s Dr. Griffin?”

//

They met at a bar.

She was exhausted, weariness and fatigue seeping into her very bones, and the last thing she wanted was to go for drinks. But it was Anya’s birthday, and Lexa had promised, had sworn that she’d ‘get out more,’ so she found herself sitting at a booth, nursing a beer, staring idly at the back of a blonde haired woman.

“At least pretend you’re excited to spend a night hanging out with me,” Anya chided as she slid into the other side of the booth, setting her second beer on the table, giving Lexa a glare.

“I am excited.”

“If deadpan were a language, you’d be fluent.”

“It’s late.”

“You’re just boring.”

“I’m coping with loss.”

“First, that wasn’t fair. Second, if you want to go, go. I do have other friends.”

“Sure you do.”

“I do. There’s one right now.” At that moment, the blonde she’d been staring at walked over to their booth, sliding in next to Lexa, smiling widely at Anya.

“Happy birthday! Sorry I’m late, last minute labs to run—” She cut herself off, only just noticing Lexa. “Oh. Hello. I’m Clarke. I work with Anya at the hospital.”

“Lexa,” Lexa mumbled, and Clarke frowned, turning to Anya questioningly.

“That’s my best friend and roommate. She’s a tad unused to social events, forgive her awkwardness.”

“I’m not awkward,” Lexa immediately protested awkwardly. Clarke smiled.

“Oh, you’re the one who eats all the cereal so that Anya is forced to eat breakfast at the hospital cafeteria.”

“I don’t do it on purpose,” Lexa denied.

“Don’t lie. I can hear the maniacal laughter every morning. All you need is some mustache twirling action and you’d be the perfect super villain.”

“Because I eat cereal? Come on, Anya. I buy it anyway.”

“Hey. You said we can’t pull the ‘who paid for what’ card, remember? Something about always owing each other something, blah, blah, insert awkward philosophy babble here.” Lexa opened her mouth to argue, but Clarke turned to her in interest.

“Philosophy?”

“Lexa has an actual doctorate in philosophy. The original PhD,” Anya said with a grin. “She’s an assistant professor at the university.”

“And you two still live together?” Clarke asked, not looking away from Lexa.

“Anya won’t leave me alone.”

“Lexa can’t live without me.”

“I’m sensing a bit of a disconnect,” Clarke laughed, and Anya rolled her eyes.

“I’m thinking we need more drinks. So another round?” Clarke and Lexa both gave their assent, and Anya slid out of the booth, leaving the two of them alone. For a moment, they were silent, then Clarke shifted so that she was completely facing Lexa.

“A professor, huh?”

“Assistant.”

“Still. Professor.”

“Why are you saying it like that?”

“I don’t know. I kinda always had a thing for the professor vibe.” 

“Seriously?”

“No. But I do right now.”

“That’s forward of you.”

“I may be slightly tipsy.”

“Well, that explains everything.” Clarke grinned, leaning forward.

“You, Lexa, are very sarcastic. And I like it.” Lexa’s cheeks heated, but rather than move away, she leaned forward as well, a swoop in her stomach, an excited thrum in her veins.

“I lied before. I totally eat Anya’s cereal on purpose.” Clarke’s answering smile did something that Lexa had not felt in a while: it made her smile just as widely back.

//

“It’s not that I don’t believe you,” Lexa tries, sitting up in the bed, staring at the blonde doctor with apprehension. “It’s just that I can’t remember you, so it seems…unreal.”

“Lexa. Look, I know this is confusing. But you can’t just decide to leave.” Clarke steps forward, clenching her hands into fists. “You can’t just…give up on me, on us.”

“I woke up three days ago only to find that somehow I can’t remember the last three years, that I have a wife, and I just…I need time. You have to understand that. I need to understand what happened.” Lexa looks at Clarke pleadingly, and after a moment, Clarke seems to relent. She steps back, hanging her head, her hair covering her face, her eyes.

“Right. Right, you want time. Of course.”

“Just to get my head on straight.”

“Right. It’s perfectly reasonable.” Lexa still doesn’t see Clarke’s face, but something twists in her chest, and it becomes a little harder to breathe.

“I’m sorry,” she manages to say, but Clarke waves her off.

“Don’t be.” She looks up, and Lexa sees eyes full of tears, but a determined face—set features. “You have no reason to be. Take your time, Lexa. I’ll be waiting.” She smiles weakly, her hand on the door handle. “I’ll wait as long as you need me to.”

And then she’s gone, and inexplicably, Lexa finds herself choking back a sob.

//

It took three more meetings before Lexa summoned the courage to ask Clarke out on a date. (Anya, who’d been watching their awkwardness with outright amusement kept telling her to ‘get on with it,’ but Lexa wanted to be sure of her feelings, wanted to not feel so terrified when she talked to Clarke. So it took three more meetings, three more outings, three more until she asked and Clarke practically shouted yes, the two of them grinning goofily.)

The excitement of the date, however, morphed into nerves and awkwardness when the time actually came.

“Great weather we’ve been having lately, right?”

“Yeah. It’s, uh, cool.” Lexa laughed, the sound sounding hollow to her own ears, and Clarke’s cheeks reddened.

“I don’t usually make puns,” she said, shrugging.

“Puns are fine. Good, even.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. ‘Course.”

“So you like punny things?” Clarke’s eyes widened, as if she couldn’t believe what she’d just said. “Oh my god.”

“It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not. I’m not usually so lame.”

“It’s not lame. It’s cute.”

“You’re easily pleased.” And somehow, this comment broke the ice, and the rest of the date went swimmingly.

//

Leaves crunch beneath her shoes as she walks down the path, hands shaking, heart breaking. A part of her, she realizes now, had hoped that Clarke was lying. A part of her, she sees now, had wished that everything the doctors told her wasn’t true. But this, this is the proof. This, this is her entire world falling apart (for apparently, a second time).

“Released from the hospital and this is the first place you come?”

“I had to know.”

“You get off on being hurt, don’t you?” Anya sighs, gently hooking her arm around Lexa’s, pulling her closer. “You tortured yourself before, and here you are, doing it again.”

“She’s actually gone.”

“Yeah.”

“How did it happen?”

“Car accident.”

“And Clarke?”

“You met her nearly a year later. You guys just got married three months ago.” Lexa nods, and the two of them kneel down, sitting cross-legged in front of the gravestone.

“I can’t believe she’s actually gone,” Lexa repeats, leaning her head on Anya’s shoulder. Her best friend and roommate doesn’t respond, and Lexa doesn’t heal, but it doesn’t feel as if the world is falling apart anymore.

//

They didn’t even kiss until their fourth date.

It was a ridiculously long time to wait, but Lexa didn’t want to insult Costia’s memory, and when she mentioned this to Clarke, the doctor had smile and said, “Of course. We can go slow.”

“I’m sorry, I know making you wait—”

“Don’t be,” Clarke said, taking Lexa’s hand and squeezing it. “There’s nothing to be sorry for. I’ll wait, we can wait, for as long as you need.”

(When they finally did kiss—after dinner at a small diner, where they ate too much pie and drank too much coffee—it was warm and tasted sweet and it was gentle and Lexa fell in love.)

//

She finds she misses the life she doesn’t even remember.

Anya let her move into her extra room while she was ‘confused,’ but even in her best friend’s home, there are signs of Lexa’s life. Photos, old clothes, a painting that Anya claimed was Clarke’s, even magazines and articles from when they were planning their wedding. It’s all so surreal, so strange, and Lexa feels a longing she doesn’t understand.

Anya tells her stories, of parties and conversations and events, and Lexa’s heart aches.

Anya shows her pictures, talks about how Clarke is faring, tells her about the time they got caught out in a storm and were forced ride it out in their car. She tells Lexa of how Clarke came to several of Lexa’s lectures, how she’d bothered to read some of the ‘old, boring crap’ that Lexa was so fond of.

Anya tells her of Clarke, and the ache in Lexa’s chest gets worse.

(She wonders if you can love someone you don’t even remember.)

//

The spot was high up on the hill in the park, overlooking the city. The first time they went up there, Clarke had pretended to be winded, had pressed her palm over her heart, taking many deep breaths before leaning over with her hands on her knees. (When they actually got to the top, though, Clarke and leaned into Lexa, telling her this that was officially ‘their spot.’)

When she started thinking about proposing, it was this ‘spot’ that was on the forefront of her mind. She thought often of all their picnics and nights spent staring up at the stars and the sense of calm and peace they both felt here. After all, it was where they had their first fight—hushed, whispered, harsh. It was where Lexa had broken down and allowed Clarke to comfort her. It was where Clarke cried over the loss of a patient. And it was also where Lexa told Clarke about her promotion, where Clarke awkwardly asked if they were officially dating, where they’d sat and talked, lost track of time, spending an entire night under the sky.

It was _their spot_ , and Lexa wanted another memory there: where she asked Clarke to marry her.

It was a simple affair. They carried their lunch up to the top of the hill, they sat, shoulder to shoulder, looking down at their city and munching on their sandwiches, and then Lexa casually let the question out (the question that was dying, burning, _craving_ to come out). Lexa asked, Clarke calmly nodded, as if this sort of thing happened everyday, and for all its tranquility, for all its peacefulness, it was a pivotal, enormous, earthshattering, _incredible_ moment. Lexa’s heart was beating out of control, Clarke couldn’t stop grinning, and for days afterward, Anya kept snorting, claiming she’d never met two ‘more sappy idiots.’

And much later, when Octavia asked her to describe that day, Lexa had nothing to say except, “ _Perfect._ ”

//

“I love you. You’re like my sister. But, dammit, Lexa. Get your shit together.” Lexa looks up, staring into the frustrated, angry face of her best friend and roommate.

“What?”

“You get up and mope. You go to work and mope. You come back home and fucking _mope_. You know what’s missing. You _know_. So just go get it.”

“It’s not that simple,” Lexa protests, shaking her head. Anya rolls her eyes and collapses onto the couch, not looking at Lexa.

“It is. You’re just to thickheaded to see that.”

“Anya, I—”

“You love her. I know you do. You think I don’t see you staring at the photos? You think I miss the wistful expression on your face when anyone mentions her?”

“But I don’t remember anything still.”

“You may never get those memories back. So why not just go and make new ones?” Lexa blinks, the words bothering her more than she likes to admit. Because what if Anya is right? What if those past memories are lost forever and she’s waiting pointlessly? What if Clarke would be willing, would be all right, with starting from the beginning? _I’ll wait_ , she had said. But, even for Clarke, wouldn’t there come a time when the waiting just wasn’t worth it anymore?

“Do you think she’ll go for it?” Lexa asks quietly, avoiding Anya’s eyes when she turns to her in exasperation.

“Go for it? Clarke will swoop with joy. She loves you, Lexa. That doesn’t change just because you forgot you once argued for days over her socks.”

“Socks?”

“I dunno. When you told me the story, I kept thinking how stupid it was and wasn’t quite paying attention.”

“Anya?”

“What?”

“Thanks.”

//

They got married on a Saturday, surrounded by friends and family. Octavia got drunk and punched Finn, Bellamy made out with Raven, Lincoln decided it would be appropriate to carry Lexa on his shoulders, shouting how happy he was for his sister, and Anya’s speech made everyone laugh except for Abby who stared at them disapprovingly.

And later, Clarke and Lexa fell into a rhythm, as if they’d been married for decades rather than just a few weeks. They argued and laughed and watched television and cooked together and went grocery shopping and it was domestic, it was passionate, it was the honeymoon phase, it was beautiful, it was hard, it was worth it, and every day Lexa fell a bit more in love.

Days turned into weeks and weeks into months, and it was a drive. It was just a drive to the grocery store to pick up eggs and milk.

It was just a drive.

She woke up in the hospital.

//

She makes the ridiculous decision not to call first.

For some reason, her reasoning escapes her the moment she knocks on the door, waiting breathlessly. She hears footsteps (her heart stops), she hears the turning of a lock (her head spins), she watches as the doorknob turns, the door opening (she feels high).

“Lexa?” Clarke mutters in surprise, opening the door wider, stepping out onto the doorstep, wrapping her sweater tighter around herself.

“Hi.”

“Not to sound rude or anything, but what’re you doing here?” Lexa swallows, looking down and literally fiddling with her fingers.

“I needed time,” she says, and she looks up long enough to see Clarke’s face fall. “I asked for time, and I realize now that it was so…stupid.”

“Lexa—”

“Because I was looking for what I was missing, you know? And I thought it was my memories. But it wasn’t.” Lexa looks up briefly again, noticing that Clarke’s expression softens and her defensive posture changes to a more open one. Her hands fall to her sides, a small smile graces her lips.

“Lexa. I don’t—”

“I hear there’s this great spot overlooking the city. Want to go on a picnic?” she interrupts, gesturing to basket at her feet. Clarke’s eyes widen and she laughs.

“You remember the spot?”

“I don’t need to,” Lexa says, meeting Clarke’s eyes fully. “I have you.”


	13. superman au

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact: I think I orphaned, didn't delete, this story. but I figured id repost just to have in the same place as everything else.

The clicking of keyboards, ringing of phones, and burr of the coffee machine fills the room, and Clarke instantly feels at home. She straightens her glasses, which are sliding down the bridge of her nose, and looks around in awe.

She is surrounded by a flurry of movement. Everyone is rushing about, doing something. Some are at their desks, writing furiously, others are talking on the phone, demanding quotes. The Editor-in-Chief, a tall, tough looking man named Jaha, is yelling at a reporter, gesturing to a paper on his desk every so often. Clarke grins, but moves further away from the editor's office, not wanting to be tempted into eavesdropping.

Slowly, balancing her box of things on one hand, Clarke passes by several cubicles before she finally finds the one she's looking for: Lexa Woods, Investigative Reporter. Even in Kansas, Lexa Woods is a legend—she'd singlehandedly brought down two corrupt CEOs, uncovered the truth about a cheating scandal, and had been the first to land a one-on-one interview with the rich, famous, and ever-elusive Cage Wallace.

Her cubicle is empty, but her laptop is on her desk, a blank word document open. Post-it notes litter the walls, and a journalism award leans haphazardly in the corner, like it was tossed there and forgotten. In fact, the only personal effect in her work space was a photo of her and older man with a long, messy beard.

"Can I help you?" Clarke turns, suddenly face to face with the great Lexa Woods herself. The reporter isn’t too tall, but she’s wiry, with loads of curly brown hair, and intelligent green eyes. She’s wearing a button up, its sleeves rolled up to her elbows, and a pair of slacks—all in all, a rather unassuming, normal-looking person (not at all the terrifying woman she’d imagined from the stories). Clarke feels her mouth go dry and blushes, holding out a hand.

"Hi! Uh, sorry. Wasn't snooping, promise. I'm Clarke." The name doesn't spark anything in the reporter's eyes, and Clarke assumes she hasn't been informed yet. "Uh, Clarke Griffin? I'm your new partner." Lexa stares at her outstretched hand blankly for a moment before sighing and setting her fresh cup of coffee on her desk and shaking Clarke’s hand quickly, like it's a chore and she just wants to get it over with.

"I don't have a partner," she says, wiping her hand on her shirt, which Clarke finds only slightly offensive. Mostly, she's in awe of the reporter and she doesn't quite care.

"Well, you do now!" She grins, but Lexa just stares at her impassively.

"You're a rookie. I have no time for rookies."

"Well, I'm not totally a rookie. I was the editor of the Ark Gazette." This makes Lexa snort.

"I'm sorry, the what?" Clarke blushes, no longer able to meet Lexa in the eyes.

"Small town paper. Jaha didn’t think it was impressive either.”

“This is punishment, isn’t it? For writing about the Kane scandal rather than that _ridiculous_ story about his favorite football team.” Clarke smiles awkwardly, pushing up her glasses again.

“I really wouldn’t know. I just do what I’m told.” This makes Lexa look at her curiously, her eyes narrowing, a finger tapping against the cubicle wall, almost like she’s unaware she’s doing it.

“Can you write?”

“I think.” Clarke stops, clears her throat, and shrugs. “I mean, Jaha said I was good.”

“Are you up for dangerous situations? Can you work under pressure?” Clarke digs her fingernails into her palm to keep from grinning stupidly at the questions, and nods. Lexa crosses her arms over her chest, still looking at Clarke curiously, her lips pulling down into a frown, like she’s not quite impressed. “Okay then, Clarke Griffin. Welcome to the Daily Planet.”

xxx

She gets through her first week in Polis relatively incident free. There was the robbery that she stopped fairly easily by melting the rubber soles of the thief’s shoes, slowing him down enough for the cops to catch up to him. And then she stopped a traffic accident by halting the car’s progress with one hand. She’s also vaguely sure a homeless man saw her flying over her building, but judging from the way he was swearing off alcohol and drugs, she feels it’s pretty safe to assume he’d considered it a hallucination.

Even work was excellent.

Lexa Woods lived up to her name. She was intense, stubborn, fiercely determined, and highly intelligent, and working with her was incredible. Clarke loved watching the way Lexa would latch onto a story, chase down leads, refuse to take no for an answer, and then return to her desk late at night, furiously typing away. And for the first few days, that’s all she did: watch. But then Lexa began pointing things out to her, giving her contact names, asking her to write certain sections of her articles, editing others.

“You won’t get a byline for a while. And I know how useless that can make you feel,” she’d say when she’d hand over her article for Clarke to go over. “This way, I get a second opinion, and you get practice.”

It’s the second week she’s in Polis that things fall apart.

First, her mother called (that should’ve been a warning, but Clarke was too excited about work, about how fun, exciting, and _new_ Polis was that she didn’t really stop to think about why her mother would call).

“Your father and I want to visit,” she said brightly, and Clarke had agreed, not thinking much of it. She regrets that now when her parents stand in her apartment, looking at the bare walls and mostly unfurnished place with identical looks of skepticism.

“I dunno, kiddo,” her father begins, grinning slightly. “This looks a little worn down. How much are you paying for this?”

“Is that why you’re here? To judge my apartment?” Her father laughs, his sense of humor always more in tune with her than her mother’s (who is frowning, eying the dishes that have accumulated in the sink with undisguised desire). “Mom, you’re not going to wash my dishes.”

“Yes, but—”

“I can do it myself. _Easily_.” This makes her parents turn to her, worry now adorning their faces.

“Yes, and that’s what we wanted to talk about,” he dad begins, no longer grinning. “Honey, it’s all over the internet. Some homeless guy saw a blonde girl flying over a building? A woman swears she saw a blonde girl stop a moving car with her bare hand? What’re you doing? You promised to lay low.” Clarke groans, throwing herself onto her couch.

“I _am_ laying low. This past week, there were _five_ bank robberies. And I only got the money back for one of them.” Her father opens his mouth, but it’s Clarke’s mother who speaks up first.

“Clarke, honey, we love you, and we think you’re incredibly special. But if anyone finds out about you…what do you think will happen?” Clarke nods, remembering the hundreds of lectures she’d gotten over the years:

_Don’t use your abilities to hurt others, Clarke, or you’ll be shipped off and experimented on._

_Don’t let anyone see your powers, Clarke, or you’ll be shipped off and experimented on._

_No, Clarke, you’re not allowed to cheat at softball, that’s not what your powers are for, they’ll ship you off to be experimented on._

She sighs, wishing her parents could’ve figured out what her powers _were_ for if not to cheat.

“I’m being careful,” she tells them carefully, smiling slightly to ease their worry. “I promise.” Clarke’s mother exhales, looking utterly relieved, and she walks over to pull Clarke into a hug. “We’ll see you for dinner Friday night, okay?” She nods and no one speaks of her powers for the rest of their visit.

Unfortunately, the reporter Jaha was yelling at the first day Clarke started at the Daily Planet, Monty, finds the stories about the blonde flying girl online. It causes a panic.

“I don’t care _what_ we have to do. We _gotta_ be the first to find out who this girl is, okay?” Jaha looks at all of them, and then turns to Lexa, his determined look mirrored on her face. “You got this, right, Woods?” She nods, not looking at Clarke, not noticing that Clarke just dropped all her papers at the prospect of _Lexa Woods_ searching for this ‘super’ girl—because if anyone could find her, it would be Lexa, and that’s the exact opposite of laying low.

“Yes sir. I got this,” Lexa says, and no one hears Clarke’s little groan of worry. 

xxx

She finds it with a note attached, her father’s scrawl practically illegible.

_This was on you when we found you,_ the note reads. _Whatever you decide to do with you-know-what, we are so proud of you._ Clarke snorts despite herself. ‘You-know-what’ was code for her abilities, had been for as long as she could remember. Laughing again, Clarke sets aside the note and opens the box. Inside is a yellow diamond shaped piece of fabric, the likes of which Clarke has never seen before, with a large red ‘S’ embroidered over it. Clarke blinks several times in quick succession, utterly confused by why her father would give her a big ‘S,’ and how it was supposed to help her figure out what to do.

It takes her a second, but she remembers of the comic books they read together when she was younger, and his meaning suddenly becomes quite clear. Clarke grins, the idea taking root in her mind.

xxx

“Yes, and your father is very excited. I’m just not quite sure this is the _best_ idea, Clarke.”

“No one will know who I am!” Clarke exclaims into the telephone, hearing her father cheer in the background. “It’s perfect.”

“It’s _risky_.”

“It’s _brilliant_ ,” her father shouts, and Clarke can hear her mother shush him violently.

“Don’t encourage her, Jake.”

“Why not?” he asks, and Clarke knows she’s on speaker because he’s not shouting anymore. “You’re going to help a lot of people, kiddo.” Clarke just grins.

xxx

It’s a month after she moves to Polis that Jaha gathers them all in his office, a serious expression on his face.

“I’m ashamed,” he begins, shaking his head sadly, driving home the fact that he is ashamed. “A _superhero_ waltzes into our city, goes around saving people, is actually _liked_ by nearly everyone, and the Daily Planet still doesn’t have _anything_ on the girl. Who is she? Where did she come from? What’s the deal with the S? Why Polis? Why now?” He stops to take a breath and turns to Lexa, his eyes wide. “Come on, ace reporter. Why aren’t you doing your job?”

“She’s a ghost, Jaha,” Lexa snaps. “She can _fly_. How can you interview someone who flies?” Jaha shrugs.

“I don’t know! That’s why I’m the editor and you’re the reporter. Figure it out or you’re out a job.” He takes another deep breath, looking practically crazed for a moment. “I’m serious, people. I want the exclusive. The Daily Planet gets her, _no fucking exceptions._ ” He motions for them to leave, and Clarke follows Lexa back to her cubicle, feeling oddly guilty. On one hand, she didn’t want anyone to talk to her. On the other hand, she wasn’t willing to be the reason _Lexa Woods_ got fired.

“What’re you going to do?” Clarke asks nervously, watching as Lexa shrugs on her coat, muttering curses under her breath. Lexa’s irritated gaze lands on her and Clarke wishes she’d just walked away.

“I don’t know, Clarke. I just…” She shakes her head, and something about the way her shoulders are set makes Clarke step closer, placing a comforting hand on Lexa’s elbow. The reporter follows the movement with her eyes, but she doesn’t comment or pull away.

“You just what?” Lexa’s eyes come up and bore into Clarke’s.

“I just wish I wasn’t going to be fired, I guess.” She sighs and pulls away, heading towards the elevators before Clarke has a chance to comment. Clarke stands there for a moment before letting out a frustrated groan and going after her.

She takes the stairs, wanting to get to the first floor before Lexa. When the elevator dings and the doors open, Lexa looks visibly taken aback.

“How’d you get down here so fast?” she asks, her eyes narrowing. Clarke waves off her question.

“Look, I’ve got a lead. On the superhero or whatever,” she elaborates when Lexa just fixes her with a doubtful look.

“ _You_ got a lead?” Clarke rolls her eyes and nods.

“Yes. Apparently, she’s been talking to the homeless man who saw her first,” Clarke lies, trying to give her story as much credibility as she could. A witness no one trusted at first but turned out to be totally right was a perfect cover. “He says that she asked to meet you.”

“A woman who can _fly_ is sending me a message via a homeless man?”

“Maybe she wants to preserve her anonymity.”

“It sounds like a wild goose chase to me.” For once, Clarke is not amused by Lexa’s innate distrust of _everything_.

“How could it hurt? The worst that could happen is that she doesn’t show up.” Lexa’s eyes narrow, and Clarke can tell she’s finally bothering to consider the idea.

“You sure the lead is solid?” she asks after a long pause, pulling her jacket tighter around her, trying to stave off the cold as they exit the building. Clarke nods hurriedly.

“Yeah, positive,” she says, fumbling with her words only a little when Lexa grins widely at her. That’s when she realizes it: it isn’t guilt that compels her to help Lexa Woods.

“An interview with the girl who flies. It’s incredible that she chose _me_.”

“Not that incredible,” Clarke mutters, blushing when Lexa gives her an odd look. “It’s just that…well, you’re uh, you’re pretty great. And I’m sure even a flying person would realize that.” Lexa smiles, but she seems utterly focused on the task at hand, and Clarke’s words sort of awkwardly fall flat. She pushes up her glasses, suddenly feeling the urge to look away.

“So where do I meet her? Did the homeless man give a location?” Clarke doesn’t look up as she answers.

“She’ll find you.”

xxx

It’s nearly midnight when Clarke lands on Lexa’s balcony, knocking carefully on the glass so as not to break it. It only takes a second for the door to slide open, Lexa’s face appearing. She’s wearing pajamas, her hair is disheveled, and she shivers as the cold night air rushes into her apartment. 

“Willing to let me in, Ms. Woods?” Clarke asks, trying her hardest to suppress a smile (her stomach is doing a strange flipping thing, and once again, she’s struck by the knowledge that she is _not_ here because she felt guilty).

“I thought you wouldn’t show,” Lexa says, moving aside to let Clarke in. Her eyes are narrowed, and she looks more than a little doubtful about the whole thing, so Clarke rises a foot into the air, literally gliding over to the reporter’s couch. “Holy shit,” Lexa mutters, shaking her head. “I didn’t believe it, but I believe it now. Who are you? _What_ are you?” Clarke grins slightly.

“I don’t know. My parents—the people who raised me—found me. They said I fell from the sky.”

“So…you don’t know anything? About where you came from, who your real parents are? Any of that?” Clarke shakes her head and watches as Lexa stumbles over to her couch, collapsing there. “Wow.”

“Puts a damper on your article, doesn’t it? Having no backstory?”

“Who cares about the damn article? I just meant…wow, I’m _sorry_.” Clarke lands on her feet and moves to sit across from Lexa, studying her patiently. To her ultimate surprise, a flush appears on the reporter’s cheeks, and she looks uncomfortable. “Okay, uh, how old are you?”

“I don’t know. Probably no older than you.” Lexa grabs a notepad and begins to write Clarke’s words down, her pen moving at a furious pace.

“Where were you raised? Who raised you? Why come to Polis? Why use your powers to help people?” Clarke laughs, not realizing that Lexa _could_ be flustered, yet here was proof, right before her eyes.

“Well, I won’t answer the first two,” she says slowly, shrugging slightly. “I came to Polis because I wanted a change. And how else would I use my powers?”

“I don’t know, take over the world?”

“Yeah, but I don’t want the world.”

“What _do_ you want?” Lexa asks, latching on to the unspoken part of Clarke’s comment. She smiles, recognizing the tactic from the dozens of times she’d seen it used on others.

“What everyone else wants, I guess. To be happy.”

“Are you not happy?” Clarke smiles and doesn’t answer, bringing Lexa’s pen to a halt. “You’re not happy,” she repeats, this time stating a fact.

“I’m content. And for now that’s good enough.” Lexa puts down her notepad and her head tilts to the side, looking positively _heartbroken_ , thought Clarke can’t imagine why. All she knows is that Lexa’s cheeks still are flushed, that she keeps tucking her hair behind her ear, like she’s nervous, that her heart rate is much faster than normal (Clarke’s _never_ heard it beat so fast, not even when Lexa is in the middle of writing a story she’s incredibly excited about).

“What would it take for you to be happy?” she asks softly, leaning forward. Clarke is stumped; this isn’t something she’s ever thought about—something she ever even entertained. She just always assumed being content was enough.

“I don’t know.” She looks up and runs her fingers through her hair, thinking hard. “I guess…I want to belong. You know?”

“To be accepted?”

“Yeah, but more than that. I want to feel like there’s a point. To feel…complete, whole.” Lexa stares at her for a moment, not responding, not even bothering to pretend her eyes aren’t fixated on Clarke’s lips.

(For the third time, Clarke realizes that she most certainly didn’t want to help Lexa out of guilt).

“What does the ‘S’ stand for?” she asks, breaking the silence—and the moment—before leaning back into the couch. She grips at her pajama pants like she’s physically restraining herself, though from what, Clarke doesn’t know.

“I have no idea, Ms. Woods. I’m sure you’ll come up with something grand, though.” Lexa doesn’t speak up for a whole minute so Clarke stands and turns to leave. She’s about to fly off when Lexa calls out to her.

“Lexa. You can just call me Lexa,” she says, sounding a tad breathless. Clarke can’t help the wide grin, and the stuttering beat of her own heart—a beat that matches Lexa’s.

xxx

“You see the headlines, Clarke?” Lexa asks, leaning over her cubicle and sticking her head into Clarke’s. It shocks her enough that she fumbles with her coffee mug, spilling the hot liquid everywhere. “It’s great, right?” Clarke nods quickly, mopping up the coffee while simultaneously pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose.

“Told you the lead was good,” she says, grinning slightly when Lexa practically sighs in response.

“Oh man, Clarke, you should’ve _seen_ her.” She sighs again, this time wistfully—or as close to wistful as _Lexa Woods_ can get. “She’s beautiful. Blonde hair like yours, but she keeps it down.” Lexa studies her for a moment and frowns. “You ever think about not leaving it up? I think it’d look nice.”

“Oh no, that’s entirely too much effort for me.” Lexa laughs, running her fingers through her own hair and shaking her head.

“You believe in love at first sight, Clarke?” she asks, her eyes on the coffee stained paper on Clarke’s desk. The headline can still be read: _Sky Princess: Flying Woman Here to Protect Polis._ Underneath the headline, there’s a slightly blurry photo of Clarke flying through the sky, a photo she’s avoided looking at thus far. She turns to Lexa and smiles slightly.

“Yeah, I guess so.” Lexa hums and goes back to her work, leaving Clarke feeling rather confused.

But her heart swells.

**SUPERMAN AU PART 2**

Clarke stares at the man with the gun, unamused and unafraid.

“I’ll shoot!” he threatens, shouldering the bag of money, waving the pistol threateningly. Clarke very nearly rolls her eyes. She’s already late for work—Lexa will be _livid_ —and she doesn’t have time to humor the wannabe bank robber.

“Shoot,” she says, shrugging.

“I will!”

“Then do it.”

“I swear it, I will.” This time, Clarke does roll her eyes.

“I’m not stopping you, am I? Shoot already!” The man lets out a growl and pulls the trigger; the bullet bounces harmlessly somewhere off Clarke’s shoulder (he wasn’t just a shoddy bank robber, he was a shoddy shot too) and the man’s mouth falls open.

“What the hell?”

“Did the blue suit and big S not tip you off?” Clarke gestures to her ‘costume’ as her mother calls it, and looks back at the man. “Would anyone worried about a bullet wear this?”

“ _What are you_?” the man demands, and Clarke shrugs.

“I don’t know. But you’re a felon. And you’re going to prison.” The man raises his gun again, shaking his head vehemently.

“No, I’m not going anywhere! I’ll shoot!”

“We’ve already been through this—”

“—not you!” he interrupts, a sudden crazed gleam appearing in his eyes. “I’ll shoot _her_.” He grabs the woman nearest to him and drags her to her feet, pressing the gun to her temple. “Let me go, or she dies.” Clarke holds up her hands in surrender.

“You got me,” she says. The man nods smugly and shuffles towards the bank’s doors, the woman still held at gunpoint. She waits until an excited grin appears on his face (Clarke can’t _believe_ he actually thinks he’s getting away) before heating the gun until he drops it with a shout.

“What the—” His grip on the woman loosens and she struggles free. Before the would-be-could-be bank robber even knows what’s happening, Clarke is in front of him, the same ropes he used to tie up the bank’s security guard in her hands.

“This is how it’s going to work,” Clarke begins, easily dodging the man’s punch. “You’re going to sit tight here until the police come, got it?”

“No fucking way,” he snaps, and Clarke just sighs.

“You didn’t have a choice, actually.” She sees the flashing of camera phones as she ties up the bank robber, ignoring his protests and struggles the entire time. Without bothering to wait for the police (she can hear the sirens, she is sure they’re on the way), Clarke takes off.

She’s so late; Lexa will _kill_ her.

xxx

“What was the one rule we had, Griffin?”

“Always be here on time.”

“Always be here on time,” Lexa repeats, her eyes flashing. “While you were off doing whatever the hell you were doing, _Sky Princess_ was stopping a bank robbery. And we _missed_ the exclusive.”

“So Sky Princess stuck, did it?” She groans a little—she’d been hoping for something a little more hardcore. For whatever reason, ‘Sky Princess’ makes her imagine Cinderella in a spacesuit.

“You don’t like the name I gave her?” Lexa asks coolly, and Clarke holds up her hands in surrender.

“What? No, that’s not it at all.”

“So what is it?” Clarke racks her brain for an excuse, for a reason that would pacify Lexa enough to stop the glaring. She clears her throat nervously, straightens her glasses, and tugs on the sleeves of her sweater. “Well?” Lexa prods, clearly impatient.

“Sky Princess…stopped me in the street.” Lexa’s mouth falls open and she stares at Clarke with ill-concealed suspicion.

“She stopped… _you_?” Clarke nods shakily, playing with her cup of coffee (she’d only just managed to pour herself a cup and get to her desk before Lexa accosted her, fire in her eyes, the promise of punishment in her tone).

“Yeah, she said she was willing to give you another interview.”

“She stopped _you_ , to tell you that she’d give _me_ another interview?” Clarke blinks a few times, wondering if she sounds quite as stupid as Lexa’s making her sound.

“Uh, yes.” Lexa raises an eyebrow, and Clarke’s known her long enough to know that she’s in ‘reporter mode.’ This was the face of Lexa Woods before she unraveled Kane’s cheating scandal, this was the look in her eyes when she handed in the first ‘Sky Princess’ article to Jaha and was proclaimed the hero of the Daily Planet.

It’s the face of Lexa Woods before she called someone on their bullshit.

“Griffin—”

“She knew you were at work and didn’t want to impose!” Clarke interrupts, nearly sighing in relief when Lexa’s cheeks flush and she looks away, clearly flustered.

“She said that?” Lexa asks, and for whatever reason, Clarke feels a strange tug in her chest. She _likes_ Lexa Woods, far more than she’s willing to admit, and at first, Lexa’s fondness for _Sky Princess_ was exciting (because at first, Clarke and _Sky Princess_ were one and the same). Now, however, every time Lexa blushes or chats about _Sky Princess_ , Clarke wishes she’d never worn the stupid costume in the first place (because, as it turns out, they are _not_ one and the same).

Lexa Woods has a thing for the woman who flies through the air and saves lives. Why on earth would she be interested in the goofy, clumsy, and awkward rookie partner of hers?

“She did,” Clarke says, suddenly feeling stiff and bitter. It’s not Lexa’s fault—not really. She was the one who chose to wear a disguise, the one who thought she was being clever by hiding who she really was behind glasses. All Lexa did was like the better of the alter egos.

“Well then,” Lexa mutters, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear—a nervous tick of hers, Clarke’s noticed. “Wow. Another interview. It’ll be great for the paper.”

“And for you.” Lexa’s head snaps up, and she’s not quite able to hide the blush on her cheeks.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asks, her eyes narrowing. Clarke holds her hands up in surrender once more.

“Nothing, nevermind.” Lexa stares at her for a moment, but she’s clearly satisfied by whatever she sees on Clarke’s face because she drops it. Instead, she leans against the cubicle wall, pointing at the half finished article on Clarke’s desk.

“You keep using the word ‘inconceivable.’ Liked _The_ _Princess Bride_ as a kid?” Clarke laughs sheepishly and looks away, rubbing the back of her neck.

“Indubitably,” she says. To her ultimate surprise, Lexa lets out a chuckle. When Clarke looks back up, Lexa is trying her best to hide a smile.

“God, Clarke. You’re such a nerd.” But her tone is light and amused, and Clarke’s heart swells. “All right then, time for work. We have to write something on the failed bank robbery.” She walks over to her own cubicle, looking at Clarke from over the wall. “And next time you’re late, not even _Sky Princess_ will be able to save you.”

“Got it,” Clarke nods, schooling her features into a serious mask. But when Lexa sits down, clearly going to work, Clarke feels a grin spread over her face.

(And that’s when she knows she’s in trouble).

xxx

“Gather ‘round, people!” Jaha calls, and Clarke steps closer to the large meeting room, standing among her coworkers, feeling just a tad claustrophobic by the fact that Lexa’s shoulder is brushing hers. “We’ve got important news. Monty?” Jaha turns to the young man and he shuffles forward nervously.

“Thank you, chief,” he mutters, but Jaha rolls his eyes and motions impatiently for Monty to go on. “Right, uh, well here’s the thing. Cage Wallace is suspected of some shady dealings with Red Enterprises.”

“How do we know that?” the international news writer asks, his arms crossed over his chest, his dark hair falling into his eyes. Clarke wonders how he manages to see anything at all.

“Lexa got the scoop from an officer in the police department—a source she refuses to name.” From beside her, Lexa lets out a loud snort.

“I’m not going to get my source _fired_ , Monty. We’ve been through this.” The room is filled momentarily with the sound of murmuring which Jaha puts a stop to by letting out an annoyed grunt. Monty smiles apologetically.

“Not criticizing you, Lexa. Just a comment.” Jaha grunts again, and Monty nods. “Right, sorry. Anyway, the gist of the lead was this: Red Enterprises has some ties to a pharmaceutical company that’s mass produced a bioweapon. They’ve unimaginatively named it _Red_.” A few people chuckle, but everyone mostly has a serious look on their face. The international news writer looks more than a little concerned. “According to our source, Wallace has purchased large quantities of this _Red_.”

“What’s he planning with it?” the dark haired man asks. He runs his fingers through his hair and it merely flops to the back before settling right back in front of his eyes.

“We don’t know,” Jaha says before Monty can open his mouth. “But whatever you’re working on now, scrap it. This is the story we’re going after. Blake, you and Miller get as much as you can on Red Enterprises and this pharmaceutical company. Woods, you and the rookie chase down Wallace.” He looks at them all, his eyes taking on a crazed gleam. “I want the Daily Planet to bring him down.”

“Sir, I think it would be better if I went after Red Enterprises. It was my source and my lead—”

“—sorry Woods. Blake’s got it.” The man with the dark hair puffs out his chest, and Clarke doesn’t need any of her powers to feel the anger rolling off Lexa in waves. “You’re the only one who’s managed to get a one-on-one with Wallace. So he’s yours.”

“I also was the only one with the one-on-one with Sky Princess. You don’t send me off to get her.” Jaha opens his mouth to answer, but Monty speaks up before him, shaking his head with a small frown.

“Is that the best name for her, Lexa? I would’ve gone with Superwoman. Or Supergirl. Sky Princess makes me think of Cinderella in a spacesuit,” he says and Clarke can’t help but snort. Lexa looks at her for a second, clearly offended, and then turns back to Jaha.

“But sir—”

“Woods, it’s not about you,” he snaps. “We want the scoop. Your career as a journalist comes _second_ to this paper. Got it?” Lexa clenches her fists but nods stiffly.

“Got it,” she hisses. Without bothering to wait to see if there was anything else, she spins on her heel and stalks out of the meeting room. After a second of silence, Monty clears his throat.

“She’s just passionate,” he says weakly. Blake snorts.

“How much do you guys want to bet that not only will she talk to Wallace, she’ll go after Red Enterprises too?” Jaha groans, as if he’s just realized Blake’s got a point (which is ridiculous, because anyone who’s known Lexa for just a second could’ve made the same exact point).

“Newbie, keep an eye on your partner, okay? Woods gets a little…invested. Don’t let it go too far.” Clarke nods and waits until Jaha dismisses them before she practically runs over to Lexa’s cubicle. The reporter is already furiously stuffing her bag with her things, simultaneously trying to pull on her jacket.

“Do you really not like the name Sky Princess?” she asks suddenly, struggling with the jacket’s sleeves. After only a second, Clarke takes pity on her and hesitantly steps forward to help, mostly sure that Lexa would push her away. To her surprise, not only does Lexa accept her help, she also flashes Clarke a grateful smile.

“It’s a good name.”

“You’re a terrible liar.” Clarke blushes and looks down, rubbing the back of her neck with one hand.

“It makes sense. Really. The name is fitting.”

“But?”

“I don’t know. Princess seems a little…well, princess-y.”

“Do you not like princesses?”

“When I was six, uh, yeah. Sure.”

“I bet _she_ likes it.” Clarke nearly laughs because, no, _she_ doesn’t like it. Instead, she just shrugs.

“Maybe. But she also flies around the city in a silly blue costume.”

“You’ve seen her in it, she looks great.” Lexa blinks, as if she’s just realized what she said, and a flush appears on her cheeks. She lets out a puff of air, blowing her hair out of her eyes. “Put on your coat. We have to go.” Clarke grins at the sudden briskness in Lexa’s tone, and she knows that the reporter has accidentally given away something she never intended to give away. Though Superwoman or Sky Princess (or whatever she was called) was entirely separate from Clarke Griffin, klutz extraordinaire, Clarke finds it more than a little amusing that the superhero can make Lexa Woods act flustered. (And if she feels a pang because she’s reminded again that the superhero is the one Lexa likes and _not_ the klutz extraordinaire, she dutifully ignores it).

“Lead the way, partner,” Clarke says, feeling her cheeks heat up when she realizes she’s put on a southern accent. Lexa looks up and bites her lip, clearly trying to check a smile.

“God, Clarke. You’re such a nerd.” Clarke’s heart thumps wildly in her chest because there’s more than amusement in Lexa’s tone. There’s fondness.

xxx

“This is a bad idea.”

“That’s what I said, but she’s not listening to me.”

“She doesn’t listen to anyone, it’s her thing.”

“So how long have you known her? I’ve only been working with her for six months.” Lexa looks up from her phone long enough to glare at Clarke and her source (a young woman Lexa only allowed Clarke to meet after she swore she’d take the secret to her grave).

“I didn’t introduce you two for you to gossip. We’re here to work.” Her source snorts, her detective’s badge gleaming against the glare of the sun.

“I’m here to enjoy the show.”

“Octavia,” Lexa says lowly, a warning in her tone. The woman raises her hands in surrender and Clarke suddenly wonders if that’s an effect Lexa has on _everyone_ she meets.

“Look, Lexa, I’m glad you guys are looking into this. It’s why I told you. But tickling a sleeping dragon is probably not a good idea.” Clarke laughs and Lexa glares at them again.

“Great. I guess you two will get along great then.”

“You sound jealous, Lexa,” Octavia teases. Clarke laughs again, but to her ultimate surprise, Lexa’s heartbeat quickens. Her features are still as blank as ever (not counting the glare that’s a permanent fixture on her face), and overall, she just seems vaguely bored. But there’s no mistaking it—her heart rate is much higher than a moment ago.

“I take it you’re not going to stick around?” Lexa asks, ignoring Octavia’s comment entirely. The detective shrugs.

“Technically, I don’t have any reason to be here. Besides, if you guys screw up and make him suspect your on to him, I’d rather not have him think the police are involved too. Not yet, anyway.” Her voice is practically _dark_ by the end of her statement and Lexa gives her an approving look. Clarke pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose, suddenly feeling vaguely nervous. She knows that should something happen, she can easily get herself and Lexa out of any trouble. What bothers her is that, should anything happen, she’ll be shipped off and experimented on. Even worse, _Lexa_ would know who she really was. “Right Clarke?” Octavia asks, breaking into her thoughts. Clarke looks up in surprise, not having realized that the detective had been talking.

“Sorry, what?”

“I’ll be waiting here. Lexa says you can whistle.” Clarke turns to Lexa in confusion, but the reporter is determinedly digging through her bag, refusing to look up as she speaks.

“You whistle all the time while you work. It’s annoying.” Octavia smirks and rolls her eyes.

“Anyway, the point is, if you need me, whistle. Lexa’s wearing a wire. I’ll hear you.”

“The plan was we just _talk_ to Cage Wallace.”

“Yeah, but Wallace is an idiot. He’ll probably be bursting to tell someone what he’s up to,” Lexa says offhandedly, clearly no longer interested in planning and itching to walk into Wallace’s office building. Octavia stretches out on the bench—chosen specifically because it was across the street and gave her an excellent vantage point of the building—and shakes her head.

“Don’t underestimate him, Lexa.”

“Don’t worry about me. Worry about yourself when Bellamy finds out you’re the source.”

“Oh shit, forgot about him. Do you think I should tell him or just wait till he finds out?”

“Either way, warn me? Your brother is going to be really upset with me in…” She checks her watch. “…oh, six hours? I’d rather not have you be another reason for him to hate me.”

“You went after Red Enterprises, didn’t you?” Clarke frowns for a second and then she finally connects all the dots.

“You’re _Blake’s_ sister?” She can’t help the slightly incredulous tone in her voice because Octavia is funny and laidback whereas Blake is serious and, from the little she’s seen of him, straight-laced.

“Yeah, Bellamy has that effect on people,” Octavia says with a grin, clearly knowing exactly what Clarke means.

“I take issue with his hair,” Clarke says and Octavia laughs.

“The flopping thing?”

“The _flopping_ thing!” Clarke opens her mouth to ask when he’s planning on getting a haircut when Lexa stands abruptly, her expression cold.

“If you two are done chatting, we have work to do.” Clarke stands as well, taking Lexa’s change in mood in stride. Octavia, however, raises an eyebrow, and when she stands, she leans over to whisper something in Lexa’s ear. Clarke tries her best not to listen ( _really_ ), but it’s to no avail. She hears it anyway:

“Guess you don’t just sound jealous.”

xxx

“Ms. Woods and Ms. Griffin, Mr. Wallace is in the middle of a phone call. He asks you be patient for just a moment longer.” Lexa nods stiffly and Clarke slouches even further into the ridiculously comfortable waiting room chair. She watches as the secretary walks back to his desk, surprised when Lexa growls under her breath.

“He’s doing this on purpose.”

“You think so?”

“Either that or he’s on the phone with the President. Damn, I wish I could hear what he was saying.” Clarke wonders if it would be worth coming up with a lie to explain how she knew Wallace was talking to some woman named Tsing about the death of several test subjects. She wonders if he’s stupid enough to talk about the bioweapon on his work phone.

“Probably talking to his girlfriend,” Clarke finally says, deciding against telling Lexa anything (she was sent to keep Lexa from going too crazy…she could just go after the lead on her own later).

“You haven’t _met_ Cage Wallace. He’s too creepy for a girlfriend.” 

“That’s unfortunate.”

“For who?”

“For him, I guess.” This makes Lexa smile and relax into her seat.

“Clarke, there’s something I wanted to ask you,” she says, her voice soft. When Clarke turns to look at her, her eyes are on the floor, a faint blush on her cheeks.

“Yeah?”

“Wou—”

“Ms. Woods?” the secretary interrupts, making both of them turn to him. “Mr. Wallace has agreed to see you.” Lexa stands immediately and gestures for Clarke to do the same. “Oh, sorry. He’s only willing to see you. Ms. Griffin will need to wait out here.”

“That wasn’t—” Lexa begins hotly, but Clarke stops her tirade by squeezing her wrist gently. Lexa’s eyes dart to hers.

“It’s fine. I wouldn’t have been useful anyway.” Lexa frowns but has no choice but to accept this change in plans and follow the secretary into Cage Wallace’s office. Before the door closes, she looks over to where Clarke is sitting, her normal mask slipping for just a second. Clarke lets out a sigh, sinks into her comfortable chair, closes her eyes, and settles down to listen to Lexa and Mr. Wallace’s conversation.

At first it’s mostly boring. Lots of pleasantries, and to Clarke’s ultimate shock, a good deal of subtle flirting on Wallace’s part. She’s just ruminating over how Lexa was right about Cage Wallace’s creepiness when the conversation takes a bad turn.

“I don’t understand what you’re insinuating, Ms. Woods,” Wallace says. Clarke opens her eyes, looking through the wall to see him advancing towards Lexa a little threateningly. He’s relatively short, his hair gelled back, his eyes narrowed dangerously. Lexa merely sits in her chair without even flinching.

“It’s a yes or no question, Mr. Wallace. Do you have ties to Red Enterprises and the pharmaceutical company they own?”

“No.”

“None at all?”

“I just said no, didn’t I?” Lexa uncrosses and crosses her legs, and Clarke wishes she would stop acting so unbothered for just a second and pay closer attention to Cage Wallace’s clenched fists.

“So why do you have frequent calls to Dr. Tsing, the woman in charge of said pharmaceutical company?” Clarke nearly laughs; _of course_ Lexa would’ve done her research before she showed up here. It turned out she didn’t need Clarke at all.

“How do you know that?”

“Don’t you think you should be more worried about the fact that you’re conducting shady business deals on your work phone?”

“That’s it. This conversation is over. Get out of my office. Charles!” The secretary jumps to his feet and only moments later, he is leading a practically _gleeful_ Lexa out of Wallace’s office. It’s only when the elevator’s doors are closing on them that Clarke hears something that chills her to the bones: “Since that reporter is so interested in _Red,_ let her have a taste of it.”

xxx

Wallace doesn’t waste any time. The next day, when they’re leaving the Daily Planet late at night (a common occurrence for the two of them), three men in balaclavas surround them both, grabbing them and attempt to pull them into a van. Clarke easily breaks free, but before she can help Lexa, the men have dragged her into the van and have driven off.

Clarke growls as she tears off her shirt to reveal the blue suit beneath it.

It takes her less than a second to locate Lexa (she’s loud, shouting as much as she can), and it takes even less time for her reach the van, landing right in front of it and bringing it to a complete stop with one hand.

“Let her go,” Clarke says, loudly enough that she’s sure all the men in masks have heard her. There’s suddenly complete silence coming from the van.

“We get paid if we deliver. Move aside, alien freak,” the van’s driver hisses, sticking his arm out of the window and pointing a gun at her head. Clarke sighs as he pulls the trigger and the bullet bounces harmlessly off her.

“I get it, you guys don’t bother with reading the paper. But even word of mouth should’ve clued you in to this: bullets don’t hurt me.” She walks calmly over to the driver’s side and tears off his door, dragging him out of the van. “One last chance. Let her go.”

When only more silence meets her words, Clarke sighs and walks over to the back of the van, opening the doors. She’s greeted by a flurry of bullets, but all she can see is one of the men holding tightly onto Lexa, a hand pressed firmly against her mouth (most likely to prevent her from warning Clarke about their _stellar_ plan), her eyes wide with fear. Clarke snorts and grabs the closest man’s gun, twisting it out of his hand.

“Funny story. Even if you hit me with more than one bullet at a time, it still doesn’t hurt me.” She shoves the man who lost his weapon back, and the last two hold up their hands.

“Take her. She’s not worth this.” Clarke holds out her hand, helping Lexa amble out of the van. Without bothering to give the men a second glance, she wraps one arm around Lexa’s waist.

“Hold on,” she says, trying to ignore Lexa’s proximity, trying to ignore the fact that her heart is racing (remnants, she thinks, of the fear she felt when they were ambushed not ten minutes ago). Lexa nods shakily, wrapping her arms around Clarke’s neck and burying her face into Clarke’s shoulder. She doesn’t even pull away when her feet are no longer on the ground, when the cold night air is whipping against her.

“What about those men?” she asks, her voice muffled by the wind and the fact her face is still pressed against Clarke’s shoulder. “Will you just let them go free?”

“Of course not. I’ll find them later. After I know you’re safe.”

“A friend was with me, Clarke. Is she okay?” There’s a pang in Clarke’s chest when she hears herself being referred to as a ‘friend,’ but she pushes it away. She has more important things to worry about.

“She’s fine. She was the one who let me know you were in danger.” She lands on Lexa’s balcony as she speaks and pulls away gently.

“You’re always conveniently where Clarke is, aren’t you?” Clarke laughs a little, looking down and rubbing the back of her neck.

“I suppose,” she says after a second, looking up to see that Lexa is staring at her with amusement and fondness. “What?”

“Oh, nothing. It’s just I never thought I’d be a damsel in distress. It’s embarrassing.” Lexa’s heart rate increases infinitesimally, and Clarke is confused.

“I’m sure it was just a one time thing,” she says, shrugging. “Are you okay?”

“A little shaken, but fine.” She tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear, smiling a little.

“Good.” They stare at each other for a moment and Clarke notices how close they still are. She takes a step back and then hovers about a foot off the floor. “Well, I have to go.”

“Right.”

“Take care of yourself, Lexa.” With one last smile, Clarke shoots off, intending to ensure tonight’s events were a one time thing.

xxx

He’s sitting at his desk when Clarke strolls in, her blue suit contrasting greatly with the beige walls and neutral colored décor.

“Who the hell are you?” he asks, standing immediately, his hand going for his phone.

“Don’t bother calling anyone. If I wanted to hurt you, you wouldn’t even have the time to dial the first number.”

“What do you want?” he asks, glaring at her.

“I know all about _Red_ , Cage Wallace. And I know you’re using Polis citizens as test subjects.” He pales considerably, but his eyes are still defiant. “I’m here to tell you that you better put an end to it.”

“Or what?” he asks, vocalizing the tacit portion of her comment. Clarke steps forward, takes the phone from his hand and crushes it, letting the pieces fall to his desk.

“Or I’ll put an end to it.”

“I don’t threaten easily,” he hisses, leaning forward. Clarke shrugs.

“This isn’t a threat. It’s a promise.” She turns and makes to leave when Cage Wallace speaks up.

“I’m not a good enemy to make, Sky Princess.” Clarke doesn’t turn around.

“Neither am I.”

**SUPERMAN AU PART THREE**

Lexa is different, and Clarke doesn’t understand why.

Her very first instinct was to blame the weird behavior on the attempted kidnapping. Yet, it occurred to her that it didn’t even _start_ until a week after that. They were having lunch together, going over articles as they were wont to do, when Clarke made an offhand comment that somehow got Lexa laughing. She’d chuckled awkwardly, suddenly feeling self-conscious about the way Lexa was looking at her.

After that, Lexa seemed…angry.

She became snappish, refused to listen to Clarke’s ideas, choosing to chase leads on her own and claiming it was because a rookie would only slow her down (Jaha, becoming increasingly frenzied over the Red and Cage Wallace situation and the fact that his paper had _still_ not published anything worthwhile on it, was quick to agree). It left Clarke feeling helpless, feeling like she had done something wrong without having actually _done_ anything at all.

Soon, however, Lexa’s anger faded into more of a muted dislike, as if she saw Clarke as something that needed fixing but couldn’t bring herself to actually do anything about it. Somehow, this hurt more than the anger (anger, Clarke has experience with. But dislike? She can’t quite remember when she was last actively _disliked_ ).

Now, the dislike has given way to a third emotion: apathy. Clarke runs in late? Lexa doesn’t even bother with her normal lecture. Clarke asks if they should go over an article during lunch? Lexa shakes her head and says that she’s already eaten. Clarke tells her that Jaha still expects the interview with Sky Princess? Lexa shrugs, claiming any monkey with a pen could conduct an interview.

The change in Lexa is maddening, frustrating, but most of all (though not surprisingly at all), it is _heartbreaking_. It hurts Clarke, more than she’s willing to admit to herself, more than she thinks it technically should. She misses Lexa’s grin, the glow in her eyes as she chased after a story, the way they would spend their nights at work, eating take out and laughing about books they’ve read and things they’ve done.

Clarke _misses_ Lexa, and she doesn’t know what she’s done to lose her.

Her eyes (as they are wont to do) find Lexa—drawn to her as if by magic—watching while she bends over her laptop, face illuminated by the bright screen, headphones in her ears, fingers typing away furiously. There’s a determined sort of look on her face, and Clarke wants to smile. This is the Lexa she knows, the one she’s so fond of…the one who is not talking to her for some unknown reason. She’s thinking about anything she could have said or done to make Lexa act this way when she’s broken out of her reverie by Jaha.

“Where is it?” he barks, walking up to their cubicles, clearly infuriated.

“Where’s what?” Lexa asks, chewing on the end of a pen (a habit of hers that Clarke finds amusing), not looking up from her computer.

“The Sky Princess story. The interview you promised me.”

“You said to scrap everything and work the Cage Wallace angle.”

“And have you figured out anything new about that?” Lexa puts the pen down, facing Jaha for the first time.

“Well—”

“—we know that Wallace has definitely been in contact with the woman in charge of the pharmaceutical company. A Dr. Tsing.”

“And?” Jaha prompts. Lexa huffs, looking annoyed at Clarke’s interruption.

“He’s also partnered up with Red Enterprises to bring in those rare rocks from Europe for that gala he’s throwing,” she adds, but Jaha is unimpressed. He leans forward, gesturing for the two of them to do the same.

“Look. You two? My best team right now.” He closes his eyes briefly, taking in an exaggeratedly deep breath. “But all you have on Wallace is that he has a girlfriend and likes rocks.” He shakes his head. “Do the interview with Sky Princess.”

“Oh, come on, Jaha. You know Wallace is shady. We need to take him down!”

“No, we need to sell papers. Because that is what we do here, _sell papers_.” He rubs his temples, shaking his head some more. “I would _love_ to bring Wallace down. But not at the expense of this paper. So until you have something concrete, we’re going to go with what _sells_. And that’s the girl in the blue suit.”

“Then get someone else to write it!” Lexa protests, her face turning red. “Anyone can write it.”

“She only talks to you.”

“That’s not even a little true. Clarke,” Clarke blinks, surprised at being addressed by _Lexa_ , the sound of her name on the other girl’s lips sounding almost foreign. “Sky Princess will do the interview with you, right?” Clarke blinks again.

“Wait, what?”

“The interview. Sky Princess would do it with you, right?” Lexa looks annoyed by Clarke’s slowness and Jaha looks mildly worried, as if he’s suddenly rethinking his hiring choices. Clarke just swallows, desperate to find a way around this.

“I have spoken to her at all, really.” Lexa’s eyes narrow and Jaha practically lets out a growl.

“I don’t have time for this,” he says, straightening and looking down at Lexa. “I expect a draft on my desk in the morning, Woods.”

“On the Wallace story, got it.”

“Nice try. But you want to save the world, Woods? Go put on a costume and fly around with Sky Princess. But as long as you’re grounded, do the interview. Nice and long. Make it personal.” He turns and is gone without another word, leaving Lexa glaring at Clarke.

“It already is personal,” she mutters.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you should’ve backed up your partner instead of lying. You should’ve just said you’d do the damn interview.”

“I thought you _liked_ Sky Princess. Besides, I told the truth. I _haven’t_ spoken to her.” Lexa opens her mouth to retort, but Clarke—for the first time more frustrated than sad at Lexa’s new behavior—speaks before the reporter gets the chance. “And we haven’t been much of anything lately, let alone _partners_.” She gets to her feet, grabbing her coffee mug off her table, and practically stomps away, wanting to clear her head. Yet, to her ultimate surprise, Lexa _follows_ her _._

“That’s the first logical thing out of your mouth. We _aren’t_ partners. I don’t think we ever have been.”

“No, I guess we haven’t,” Clarke snaps back, shoving the door to the empty break room open, heading towards the coffee maker.

“That’s how it is, huh?” Clarke puts her mug down on the table, turning to Lexa furiously, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose.

“You’re the one being difficult, Lexa. All I wanted—” She never gets to say what she wanted because Lexa suddenly closes the distance between them, something strange in her eyes, and before Clarke can even register that Lexa is _far_ too close to be professional, the reporter’s mouth is on her own, kissing her.

After that initial moment of shock wears off, however, Clarke wastes no time to wrap her arms around Lexa’s waist, pulling her closer, and Lexa— _Lexa_ , who hasn’t spoken to her, who she was convinced _hated_ her—is playing with the hair at the nape of her neck, sending chills down her spine, backing her into the counter, never breaking the kiss. And though Clarke is preoccupied with the feeling of Lexa’s lips, with her warmth, with the way her body presses into her, the feeling of Lexa’s skin against hers firing up nerve endings that Clarke didn’t even know she _had,_ one single thought breaks through the haze: _this is it_. This is what she has been searching for, what makes her whole, complete—the _point_. This is _it_. (And _it_ is Lexa). So when Lexa breaks the kiss, the words are on her lips. She wants to say it, throwing caution to the wind. She just _desperately_ wants to say it— _needs_ to say it.

“Lexa, I—”

“I have to go,” she interrupts, taking several steps back. There’s a certain amount of shock on her face, like she can’t believe what she just did. “I, uh,” she frowns, like she can’t find the words, and Clarke wants to laugh at the fact that _Lexa_ is speechless (the only problem is, nothing about the situation is funny). “I have to go.” She straightens her shirt—which somehow got disheveled, Clarke is sure she doesn’t know _how_ —and is gone before Clarke can bother with coming up with a protest. Instead, she stands there in the empty break room, her glasses slipping down the bridge of her nose, her lips tingling.

“—am Sky Princess,” she finishes lamely, her secret heard only by the coffee maker. 

xxx

Lexa leaves early, telling Jaha she had to ‘meet Sky Princess for the fucking interview,’ making the Chief grin maniacally in response, telling her to leave faster and, “What the hell are you still doing here, Woods? I needed that article _yesterday_.” This sudden departure leaves Clarke feeling confused, but more importantly, just a tad satisfied. (Because _Lexa_ was nervous, was uncomfortable, so Clarke the klutz extraordinaire _must_ have induced some sort of feelings in the intrepid reporter. And if that wasn’t something Clarke could be proud of, she didn’t know what was). As she stares at her blank computer screen, however, she remembers Lexa’s odd mood and the way she _ran away_ after kissing Clarke, and all of a sudden, all the pleasant feelings in the pit of her stomach fall away and are replaced by a cold, deep, pervasive emptiness she isn’t quite sure how to fill.

“Moping, Griffin?”

“Go away, Blake. We had a deal. You don’t talk to me till you get a haircut.” Bellamy—who Clarke has been spending more and more time with since Lexa has chosen to ignore her—leans over Clarke’s shoulder, shaking his head like a dog, his hair flopping everywhere.

“I have something that’ll cheer you up, take your mind off your girlfriend.”

“Lexa’s not my girlfriend,” Clarke mutters automatically. Bellamy straightens, leaning against her cubicle wall, a grin on his face.

“Yeah, but you wish she were.” He must notice something on her face because he sighs, leaning slightly to put a hand on her shoulder, obviously trying to be comforting. “It’ll be fine. Whatever happened between you two, it’ll blow over. For now, how about you focus on the fact that I can get you in to see Cage Wallace’s rare rocks? And no, before you ask, that is _not_ an euphemism.”

“Wait, seriously?” Clarke sits up, straightening her glasses and motioning for Bellamy to continue.

“Yeah, sure, I hate euphemisms.”

“No, you moron, the other part.” Bellamy laughs, and Clarke can feel a smile pulling at her lips as well. Bellamy leans back again, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I know someone. She’s some kind of engineer contracted under Red Enterprises. Anyway, she said she can get you in.”

“I’ll tell Lexa.” Clarke makes to stand, but Bellamy shakes his head, pushing her gently back into her chair.

“No, Clarke, it’ll just be you. She can only get one person in.”

“And you’re just giving it to me? Just like that? This potentially huge story?” Bellamy shrugs, smiling slightly.

“They’re just rocks, Clarke. You’re not going not find anything.”

“But if it _is_ a shipment of Red, then—”

“—then you’ll have your first byline. And it’ll be wonderful for the paper and for you. And _maybe_ you’ll stop staring at Woods like she’s some sort of hero.”

“I like Lexa. She’s a good person.”

“Yeah, she is. But she’s also a reporter, and that comes first to her. I wouldn’t be surprised at all if she’s being distant because she sees you as competition. Because you’re good. Really.” Clarke frowns, remembering the press of Lexa’s lips, the faint taste of the chocolate she’d been snacking on earlier, the way her hands had pulled gently on Clarke’s hair, coaxing her mouth open…

“You’re wrong, Bellamy. Lexa’s not like that.” Bellamy holds up his hands in surrender.

“You know her better. But anyway, here’s the engineer’s name and phone number.” He hands her a small piece of paper. “Be careful, okay? Cage Wallace is a dangerous man.” Clarke grins at the comment, pocketing the contact’s details.

“Yeah, but I’m a good reporter, remember?” Bellamy chuckles lightly before giving her a mock salute and turning to leave. He’s gone several steps before Clarke calls out to him.

“Bellamy!” He turns with a frown. “Thanks. Really.”

“Don’t get too excited. It’ll just be some old rocks.” But he smiles at her, and Clarke guesses he knows exactly what she means.

xxx

“Wallace keeps some creepy shit over there, and it’s always pretty much closed off to everyone.” Raven—the engineer working for Cage Wallace—says, pointing to a large and heavy looking dark blue door. “The shipment is still in the loading dock at the back.” Clarke nods, tugging slightly on the cap Raven gave her to wear, wondering if this was such a good idea after all.

“Have you seen the boxes?”

“Yeah,” Raven says, grinning at Clarke. “Too big to be just ‘rare rocks’ like he’s claiming.” She stops suddenly, crossing her arms over her chest, eying Clarke curiously. “I’ll have you know, I don’t work for Wallace by choice.”

“I never said you did.” 

“Yeah, but you look skeptical. I wanted to plead my case before you decided to give me the guilty verdict.”

“I’m not judging you.”

“You should see your face,” Raven says, still grinning. “I mean, it’s fine. I know how it looks to you.”

“To me?”

“Well, yeah. Bellamy says you and your partner are like some sort of crusaders for justice or whatever. Really into your jobs.” Clarke laughs, shaking her head and motioning for Raven to keep walking.

“Sorry, but Bellamy’s just being an idiot. I like my job, but I’m not crusader for justice.” Raven snorts disbelievingly, but she lets it go, opening the door to the loading dock and leading Clarke past several large crates before they reach a smaller one.

“You know, the only one Bellamy liked at that place is Miller. But somehow you’ve gotten him to like you, so I figure you must be cool,” Raven says absentmindedly, prying open the crate. Clarke pulls out her phone and starts taking photos as Raven begins pulling out small metal boxes.

“So you’ve known Bellamy a while, right?”

“Oh yeah, since we were kids. Octavia, too.”

“You know, the way Bellamy described you, I thought he’d never met you before.” Raven laughs as she opens the first metal box’s latch. Inside, there’s a small rock, no bigger than Clarke’s fist. It’s deep blue, shiny, and most definitely not just a ‘rare rock.’ “Is this a sapphire? It’s huge.”

“Damn, how anticlimactic. I was hoping for some sort of unknown chemical or something, with a huge ‘Explosive’ warning written on the side.”

“Open the others, you may get your wish.” Raven nods and begins opening the others, but all they find are more gemstones of all types and colors. When she gets to the last box, Raven groans, the green gem lacking the warning she so desperately wanted to see. She makes to close it, but Clarke stops her, leaning closer to take a picture…only to collapse forward, suddenly feeling drained and weak.

“Oh shit, Clarke, you okay?” Raven asks, snapping the metal lid shut and reaching out to help her up. Clarke waves her off, taking a deep breath and wiping away the fine sheen of sweat that’s collected on her brow.

“I’m fine,” she mutters, unable to take her eyes off the last metal box. “I guess I had something bad to eat.” Raven looks worried, clearly about to protest, but Clarke is already feeling her strength returning, so she just smiles. “I guess this was a bust. He’s shady, but not as shady as we thought.” Raven eyes her, clearly torn between asking her if she was okay again and laughing.

“Yeah, though—” She cuts herself off as the door to the loading dock opens, and Cage Wallace himself strolls in, flanked on one side by his secretary, Charles, and a woman in a pantsuit on the other.

“Are you two supposed to be here?” he asks, eying their hats, and Clarke is suddenly glad that she didn’t meet with Cage Wallace with Lexa. If she had, not even a hat would have been enough to make her unrecognizable.

“Sinclair said we had a shipment, but I think I opened the wrong one,” Raven says, pointing to the crate they’d opened. Wallace’s eyes widen slightly.

“Engineering hasn’t gotten any shipments,” Charles says unhelpfully, and Wallace steps over to them, looking suspicious.

“Who are you?” he asks. Raven stands a little straighter.

“Raven Reyes,” she says firmly, like this should mean something to him, and evidently, it does, because Cage Wallace breaks out into a grin and turns to the woman in the pantsuit.

“This is her, Lorelei. The one who designed the item you needed.” The woman smiles, and Clarke suddenly realizes that she’s Dr. Tsing—the one working at the pharmaceutical company that _made_ Red.

“Well, Raven Reyes, you solved a problem that stumped a lot of smart people. Thank you,” she says. After an awkward pause, during which everyone waits for a reply from Raven—a reply that doesn’t seem very forthcoming—Wallace smiles again.

“Well, you heard Charles, Reyes. No shipments for Engineering. I’m sure Sinclair was mistaken.”

“I’m sure he was,” Raven says, her tone changing just slightly. “We’ll be going then.” He nods and Clarke immediately follows Raven towards the door.

“Hey, hold on.” Clarke swallows, preparing for the worst, preparing for Cage Wallace to have recognized her as Clarke Griffin the reporter—or even worse, as Sky Princess. She turns, surprised when she sees Wallace holding out her phone. “You forgot this,” he says, his eyes narrowed. She takes it with a smile then follows Raven out the door, walking only a few steps before leaning against the wall and pretending she’s out of breath.

“You made something for Dr. Tsing?” Clarke asks Raven, breathing deeply, all the while trying to listen to the conversation on the other side of the wall. _They saw the gems, Cage_ , Tsing is saying, sounding a little frustrated.

“Don’t get any ideas. I didn’t know what it was, and once I did, I immediately went to Octavia.”

“And when she couldn’t do anything, she went to Lexa,” Clarke finishes for her, shaking her head. _It doesn’t matter_ , Cage answers, _she doesn’t know what they are._

“Well, it’s not like the police could get involved. I had no proof—not even the item itself, just designs.” But Clarke is no longer listening to Raven—she’s entirely focused on Tsing’s response: _She designed the item, Cage. You think she can’t connect the dots?_

“The item. What was it? What’d you design?”

“A pressure-regulated sublimator.” At Clarke’s blank look, Raven elaborates. “It can turn a solid into a gas, even volatile ones.” She smiles slightly. “If they built it right, it can do it without wasting that much energy.” Clarke takes a deep breath, quelling the urge to switch to her alter ego and go after Cage Wallace right at that moment. “Clarke? What’s wrong?”

“I think…I think you came up with a way to aerosolize Red.” 

xxx

When Clarke lands on Lexa’s balcony, her mind is on everything but the interview and Lexa’s weird behavior from earlier that day. She’s thinking of Raven’s wide eyes, of the way they decided to go to Octavia as soon as possible, how there’s absolutely no _proof_.

Most importantly, she’s thinking of the green gem, the one that made her feel weak, drained, _powerless_ , and for maybe the first time in her life, she’s _terrified._

“Oh. You’re here. I thought you’d stand me up,” Lexa says as she slides the door open, breaking into Clarke’s thoughts, a displeased look on her face. “You know, have to go off and save the world or something.” Clarke frowns, pulled into the present despite all her worries.

“Have I done something to offend you?”

“Why would you ask that?” Lexa mutters, crossing her arms over her chest and turning. She flops onto her couch, and Clarke is slightly surprised to see a new side of Lexa. Her hair is in a single messy braid, her clothes wrinkled, her socks mismatched.

“You seem upset with me.”

“Do I?” Clarke sighs, suddenly realizing this was a very bad idea.

“I should probably go,” she says softly, taking a step back. “But for whatever it’s worth, I’m sorry for whatever it is I did.” Just as she’s about to turn, however, Lexa shakes her head.

“Wait. I’m sorry.” She looks down, staring at her fingers intently. “I’m not upset with you. Of course I’m not.” Lexa looks back up, a determined glint in her eyes. “There’s nothing to be upset about.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, of course,” Lexa says with a nod, sounding like she was trying to convince herself of that fact. Clarke studies her carefully for a moment then laughs, rubbing the back of her neck.

“I’m glad, I would hate to think you were upset with—” But she never gets to finish, because for the second time that day, Lexa is suddenly way too close, and Clarke can smell her perfume, and it’s overwhelming, and she wants Lexa to close the distance, _wants_ her—wants to feel Lexa lips against her own again (addicted after only one taste).

Yet, somehow, she feels that _should_ Lexa bridge the gap between them, it would be a betrayal.

Clarke waits with bated breath, still and desperate, terrified and heartbroken, when Lexa leans forward, her mouth by Clarke’s ear. “I have a thing,” she says, her hot breath against Clarke’s skin nearly breaking all of her resolve, “for a blonde reporter.” Clarke’s eyes widen, but Lexa doesn’t move away. “I could never be upset with her.”

XXXXXX

“How do you know the gems were Red?” Octavia asks, raising her eyebrows. She flips through the photos on Clarke’s phone, frowning, both of them ignoring the bustling noises of the diner. “These are not red.”

“I don’t know. But why else would they need Raven’s design?”

“Tsing works for a pharmaceutical company, Clarke. It could be for a million reasons.”

“If it was for anything legal, why are they being so secretive? More importantly, why involve Cage Wallace at all?” Octavia sighs, handing Clarke’s phone back, waving off the waitress who offers them refills of coffee.

“It’s suspicious, I’ll give you that. But Clarke, that’s all it is, _shady_. You have _no_ evidence—not even the device.” Clarke lifts her glasses just a little to rub her eyes tiredly.

“You sound like Lexa.”

“That should tell you something. If Lexa and I are both convinced—”

“—you’re both _wrong_. I _know_ something is up, and it’ll happen tonight, during the Gala.” Octavia looks at her pityingly, shaking her head before leaning forward, her arms folded on the table.

“You realize how you sound, don’t you? Are you _hearing_ yourself?”

“I know what it sounds like,” Clarke snaps, beginning to lose her patience with the detective. “But I have a good source.”

“A source you can’t even name! Look, Clarke, there’s no doubt in my mind that Wallace is doing something illegal, but what you’re talking about? That’s mass murder. Wallace is a lot of things, but he’s not a killer.” Clarke runs her fingers through her hair, tugging on it in frustration, itching to get away from Octavia and figure things out on her own. Unfortunately, she made a _promise_ , swearing she’d work _within_ the law (and she has never regretted a promise more).

“Please, Octavia. Trust me.” Octavia studies Clarke’s expression for a moment and then lets out a long-suffering sigh, digging through her pocket briefly.

“I do trust you, Clarke. Which is why I’ll convince the police chief to put extra security tonight. Indra owes me a favor anyway.” She gets to her feet, tossing a few bills onto the table. “But maybe you need to consider that you’re just rattled over what happened two days ago.”

“You know that no matter what it says in the papers that’s not how it happened, don’t you?” Octavia shrugs.

“Maybe. But that doesn’t change the fact that Supergirl or Sky Princess or whatever she’s called screwed up. And you and Lexa were her biggest supporters.” She shrugs again and turns to leave.

“You’re all fiddling while Rome burns, you know.” Octavia looks back with a sad smile.

“If it’s burning, it’s Supergirl’s fault.” Clarke doesn’t call her back when she turns to leave. Instead, she buries her head in her arms, mumbling incoherently when the waitress comes back to ask if she wants a refill, all the while wondering how things had gone so utterly _wrong_.

**Three days earlier…**

“I have a thing,” Lexa says, her hot breath against Clarke’s ear, “for a blond reporter. I could never be upset with her.” Clarke takes several steps back immediately, her eyes wide.

“You _know_?” is all she can say, her voice shaking, her heart racing. Lexa, however, seems utterly calm, even _smug_ , and she crosses her arms over her chest, taking several steps forward and closing the distance between them once more.

“You think you’re _so_ clever,” she says, punctuating her words with a hard jab to Clarke’s sternum. “Putting your hair down, taking off the glasses, acting confident and charming, and you think you’ve got everyone fooled.” She jabs Clarke again, this time even harder. “What I _hate_ is that you relied on the fact that no one sees Clarke Griffin. No one pays her any attention. You’re invisible behind those glasses, and it’s a fucking _insult_ to me, because I saw you from _day one_ , Clarke. I _saw_ you, and you…” She lets out a frustrated groan and throws her hands up, starting to pace around the room in her disheveled clothes and mismatched socks.

“You only had eyes for Sky Princess. I mean, the way you were after the first interview—”

“Oh yeah, thanks for reminding me!” she cries, ceasing her pacing. “Thanks for reminding me of how I made a fool of myself—”

“—you can’t talk about seeing me, Lexa. Because you didn’t see _me_. You said you have a thing for a blonde reporter? Be honest. That was after you figured it out, wasn’t it?” Lexa stares at Clarke open-mouthed, her expression torn between incredulity and exasperation.

“Do you know when I first realized I liked you?” she asks once she’s recovered. When Clarke doesn’t respond, she continues with a roll of her eyes. “You were whistling something under your breath, and your stapler had gotten jammed, and after a few minutes, the whistling turned into a series of curses, and it was…ridiculous and stupid and _cute_.” Clarke blinks, thinking back, unable to remember this particular moment. “It was your first week at the Planet.”

“How long have you—”

“Known about the alter ego?” she finishes for Clarke, one eyebrow raised. “Since that night we were nearly kidnapped.” She smiles, looking down, hiding a faint blush. “I’ve been around you every day for months. I know the smell of your shampoo, I know your laugh, I know that you rub your neck when you’re nervous, I know that you can’t meet people in the eye when you’re uncomfortable, and I’m not _stupid_ , Clarke. Glasses and a hairband aren’t enough to fool someone.”

“They fooled everyone else.”

“Everyone else wasn’t really seeing you.”

“And you do?” Lexa nods, stepping closer, a determined set to her jaw.

“At first, I thought you would tell me in your own time. But then I realized you had no reason to, and I was so _angry_ that you couldn’t trust me, _frustrated_ because I couldn’t _do_ anything. So I tried to push everything away, tried to ignore it, ignore you, but you’re like an itch you just can’t scratch, and you’re constantly _there_ and you’re _you_ and—” She cuts herself off, but her eyes remain fixed on Clarke’s.

“I was going to tell you, this morning. But you ran.” Lexa swallows.

“Clarke, I—” But Clarke doesn’t allow her to finish—doesn’t need her to finish. Instead, she moves forward, backing Lexa into the nearest wall, pressing her against it before pulling her into a kiss, her heart racing yet beating in time with Lexa’s, the warmth spreading from her chest to her toes, and it’s like she can finally breathe. Lexa tugs on Clarke’s collar, trying to pull her closer, to close a nonexistent distance, and when Lexa’s fingers then move to scratch gently at Clarke’s neck and scalp, she lets out an embarrassing moan. She pulls away slightly, giving Lexa time to catch her breath, and is about to kiss her again when she hears the sirens. “Clarke?” Lexa asks, sounding slightly breathless still.

“I have to go. I hear fire trucks.” She takes a step back, needing physical distance because she thinks if Lexa keeps touching her she might just decide to stay. Lexa smiles slightly, straightening her even more disheveled clothes, combing her fingers through her hair.

“Duty calls, right Sky Princess?”

“I thought you saw _me_.”

“I do, Clarke. And the girl I’m falling for drinks her coffee with an absurd amount of sugar and _always_ trips over the small step at the entrance of our favorite diner. It just so happens she can fly across the city too.” Clarke studies her for a moment, just a little unsure about what she means. Before she can ask, however, Lexa steps forward, cradles Clarke’s face in her hands, and presses a slow kiss to her lips before pulling away.

“All I heard was ‘girl I’m falling for,’” Clarke says, grinning. Lexa rolls her eyes, but Clarke can tell she’s fighting a smile.

“God, Clarke. You’re such a nerd.”

(And for some reason, as Clarke shoots off towards the fire trucks, she feels lighter than she has in ages).

xxx

Thoughts of the green gem haunt Clarke that night, so the moment she deems it an appropriate hour, she calls her parents, neither of whom know anything about it. (“It’s not like you came with an instruction manual, kiddo,” her father jokes, and Clarke can hear her mother tut disapprovingly in the background).

When she gets to the Daily Planet, still obsessing over the gem that made her feel so weak, Lexa’s cubicle is empty, a sticky note on her open laptop reading that she’d gone off to chase a lead and would be back in a few hours. Clarke smiles slightly and sits at her own desk, staring blankly at a blank word document, unsure what to write for the Sky Princess piece (a piece, she’d been informed via text earlier that morning, that was up to _her_ to finish since she’d been so ‘distracting’ the night before). She’s debating on how much she should talk about her childhood, actively pushing away all thoughts of Cage Wallace and green gems, when she hears Miller start speaking in an angry whisper.

“All the gems, shoved into a truck, shipped to a new, unknown location.”

“Clarke went digging, they were just rocks, let it go, Miller,” Bellamy is saying patiently, but when Clarke peeks above her cubicle, she sees that Miller is shaking his head furiously.

“The rookie missed something. I’m telling you, there’s something up.” Bellamy rubs his eyes, shaking his head.

“Even if you’re right, there’s nothing we can do. If they’ve been shipped to an ‘unknown’ location, we won’t even be able to get in to see them.” Miller opens his mouth, clearly wanting to argue, but Bellamy silences him with a curt shake of his head. “Look, Woods and I were invited to the Gala in two days. I’ll look into it then, all right? The gems are supposed to be on display.”

“Two days is a long time, Bellamy. Who knows what Wallace is up to?” Bellamy just shrugs, and Clarke rushes over to him the second Miller leaves him alone.

“Hey, Clarke. How’s it going in paradise?” Clarke ignores his comment, watching Miller’s retreating back.

“He’s right, you know,” she says, leaning against Bellamy’s desk. “Two days is a long time.” She turns to look at Bellamy in time to see him roll his eyes.

“Like I said, I’ll be there—”

“—but that’s suspicious too,” Clarke interrupts. “Cage Wallace invited the two reporters he _knows_ are investigating him?” Bellamy frowns, his eyes narrowing.

“He invited a lot of people he doesn’t like. The police commissioner, Jaha, even Kane.”

“And that doesn’t strike you as odd?”

“Not really. These are important people, _rich_ and influential people, of course they’d be invited.”

“Fine. Is Tsing invited?”

“Yeah, but she’ll be in Europe for some sort of conference.” Clarke gives Bellamy a significant look, and he immediately catches on to her meaning, letting out a deep sigh. “Clarke, that doesn’t mean anything. Wallace Senior will be there. And so will Emerson.” His frown deepens and he gives Clarke a significant look. “I know what you’re insinuating, and it’s _crazy_. Wallace is a cutthroat businessman, but what you’re suggesting...no. It’s not possible.” Clarke nods, but her mind is on the green gem, on how weak it made her feel, on the device that Raven built and Wallace’s conversation with Tsing, and she realizes she may be on her own.

“You’re right, obviously,” she says, looking down. “It was a crazy thought. I’m going to take a walk, to clear my head.” Bellamy nods, giving her a strange look.

“Yeah, yeah, that might be a good idea.”

“Right. All right then.” She waves a little awkwardly and rushes off, not bothering to collect her jacket or her things from her desk. She wouldn’t need it anyway.

It was time to do some investigating as Sky Princess. 

xxx

She lands on top of the warehouse silently. After checking to make sure no one is in the warehouse, she carefully peels back the metal roof, then glides down, looking around cautiously.

Finding someone who knew where the gems were taken was easy enough. She went to the men who’d been paid to kidnap her and Lexa, and was gratified to learn that Cage Wallace didn’t have an unlimited supply of thugs—he merely used the same ones again and again. What was difficult was convincing the men that she would hurt them if they didn’t tell her where they took the gems (a complete and utter lie, because though they were terrible people, Clarke had no intention of hurting _anyone_ ). It was only when she threatened to drag them to the police station that they finally gave in, giving her information she _hadn’t_ asked for: “Which set of gems?”

The warehouse was situated near the river, on the outskirts of the city. It was out of the way and inconspicuous, used for storage by Wallace’s company for decades. It had been so nondescript, in fact, that when they had been researching Red Enterprises, the warehouse hadn’t struck anyone as odd at all. (Belatedly, she realizes that in of itself should have been the biggest giveaway).

Clarke comes to a stop when she finds the large crate from her adventure with Raven the day before. She pries it open, her eyes widening as she understands what the thugs for hire meant when they asked ‘Which set of gems?’ because the diamonds of various cuts and sizes in the crate are definitely _not_ the gems she and Raven saw yesterday. She’s comparing the photos on her phone to the diamonds in the crate when it beings to ring.

“I’m a little busy right now,” she answers when she sees the caller ID. A frantic voice responds on the other end.

“Clarke, where are you? They’re saying you’re a criminal. You’re being set up!” Lexa cries, but before Clarke can respond, the doors of the warehouse fly open, police officers rushing in, pistols out. Leading them is Octavia, her gun pointed straight at Clarke’s head.

“Put your hands up, Supergirl. You’re under arrest for attempted robbery.” Clarke hangs up on Lexa, putting her hands up as asked.

“This really isn’t what it looks like,” she mutters. Octavia edges closer, shaking her head.

“I don’t care.” She sounds personally offended, and Clarke has to wonder why for only a moment before Octavia speaks up. “I thought you were good for this city. Turns out you’re just as corrupted as the man you’re trying to steal from.” Clarke stares at Octavia, weighing her options. With a groan, she lowers her hands.

“This _really_ isn’t what it looks like,” she says, letting her voice carry. Then, without waiting for a response, she rises a few feet in the air. “ _Really_.” Before Octavia and her officers have time to fire, Clarke shoots out of the warehouse.

xxx

The Daily Planet is in a flurry when she returns. Jaha is yelling, spit flying out of his mouth and an unprecedented rate.

“Scrap the fucking childhood story, Woods. We’re going to go with the ‘crazy super madman’ angle instead. Griffin! Where the hell have you been? You want your first byline?” Lexa glares at Clarke, then turns to Jaha with raised eyebrows.

“Is that really the best idea? Sky Princess is my story—”

“—you’ve been writing about how great she is for months, Woods,” Jaha interrupts. “We need a new voice. Griffin? Can you do it? If you can’t, you might as well pack your things right now.” Lexa visibly stifles a groan as Clarke nods shakily, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “Excellent. Excellent. I expect your first draft in an hour. Blake! Where the hell is Blake? I want him to interview Wallace. The fucking cable news has been running his speech for the last hour…” he trails off into an unintelligible mess as he walks back into his office, slamming the door shut. Clarke lets out a sigh, about to head to her desk to get started on her story when Lexa marches up to her and grabs her roughly by the arm, dragging her through the office and up the stairs. She doesn’t let go until they’re on the roof, utterly alone.

“What the hell, Clarke? What were you thinking? What if something had _happened_ to you?” Lexa shouts over the wind, her eyes full of a rage and terror Clarke’s never seen.

“I was thinking that Cage Wallace is up to something with the gems. I just wanted to see them again, take a sample or something. Besides, what would happen to me?”

“You could’ve been hurt! Or worse!” Clarke laughs, but judging by Lexa’s look, she doesn’t find anything amusing about the situation. 

“Have you forgotten who I am?” she asks, laughing again. “I wouldn’t have gotten hurt.” Lexa steps closer, her eyes wide, full of a frantic fear that Clarke just doesn’t understand.

“You’re telling me there’s absolutely _nothing_ , no weapon, no material— _nothing_ —that can hurt you?” she asks, her hand reaching out slightly, as if she wants to touch Clarke to make sure she’s real and there yet somehow doesn’t dare to actually touch her (almost like she thinks Clarke is a dream and will disintegrate at the slightest of brushes). Clarke swallows, thinking about the green gem, the stupid rock that made her feel weak and powerless, that made her go clammy and collapse against the crate, and she shakes her head.

“No, there’s nothing, Lexa. There’s no need to worry.” The words break all of Lexa’s resolve and she surges forward, throwing her arms around Clarke’s neck, holding onto her tightly.

“I was so worried,” she mumbles into Clarke’s neck. “Octavia called me, going on about how I was an idiot for liking Sky Princess because she’d just been seen breaking into Wallace’s warehouse, and God, Clarke.” She burrows her face even deeper into Clarke’s neck, her grip tightening. Guilt slowly eases its way into Clarke’s chest and increases in intensity as she hugs Lexa back, letting the reporter sway her back and forth, unable to admit the truth about the green gem now that she’s seen how worried Lexa was about mere guns.

The guilt gnaws at her after Lexa finally lets go and continues to eat at her when they return to their desks, watching Cage Wallace give yet another interview on the cable news about the ‘menace that was Sky Princess.’ And when Lexa gives Clarke a comforting smile after Wallace demands on television that ‘the crazy wannabe vigilante’ turn herself in, Clarke feels a weight settle on her chest and shoulders, realizing that she’s just replaced one secret for another.

xxx

“Hun, the news says you’re a criminal. You know if you needed money your father and I would have been happy to give you some.” Clarke rolls her eyes, shoveling more potatoes in her mouth, ignoring her father’s chuckles. She’d flown straight to her parents’ home after leaving work, wanting comfort, but most importantly, wanting to talk. She just hadn’t expected her mother to start the conversation before they even finished eating.

“I was set up,” she says through a mouthful of potatoes, her mother rolling her eyes at her table manners. “Wallace must’ve purposefully let people know the crate would be moved and then called the cops the second he got word that I was looking for them.” She shakes her head, putting her fork down and feeling her shoulders slump. “I underestimated him, let him get one over me. It was a stupid mistake.”

“Did you get a look at the green gem, the one that made you feel weak?” her father asks, his chuckles subsiding, a serious expression on his face. Clarke shakes her head.

“No, he must’ve switched them out or something. I was caught with my hands in a crate full of diamonds.” She pauses, watching identical expressions of worry appear on her parents’ faces. “On another note, Lexa figured it out.”

“How Wallace switched out the gems?”

“No, that I’m Sky Princess.” Her mother groans, but her father leans forward in interest.

“What’d she say?”

“That she was insulted that I thought she wouldn’t figure it out.” At her words, her father bursts into laughter, his shoulders shaking from the force of it, and even her mother is suppressing a smile.

“Honey, perhaps you should be more concerned with that,” her mother says, indicating the television. Cage Wallace’s face keeps popping up on the screen, the headline beneath his smirk reading, ‘SKY PRINCESS, FOE OF POLIS?’

“Of course he’s milking it. I should never have gone to that stupid warehouse.”

“Maybe you should just go directly to the source,” her father says, his expression suddenly serious, his eyes on the television screen.

“What? Go to Wallace and give him more fodder for this ‘Sky Princess is evil’ propaganda?” Her father shakes his head, a small grin appearing on his face.

“I mean go to the source—go to the pharmaceutical company.” Clarke blinks, turning to the television, listening to the newscaster drone on before they cut to Cage Wallace’s statement from earlier that day.

“I know the people of Polis are fond of Sky Princess, and I know this must come as a horrible shock. I too am _heartbroken_ ,” he reads from a card, his hair gleaming in the sunlight, his eyes narrowed dangerously. “That is why I swear to the people of this great city that I will not let some powerful _freak_ get away with this. I will work with law enforcement to _bring her down_.” He shakes his head theatrically, the small crowd that had gathered in front of his building cheering wildly. “Sky Princess will learn that no one, not even someone who can fly, is above the law.” The news program cuts back to the anchorman, and they move on to the next topic. Clarke swallows and turns back to her father, shrugging.

“Well, it’s not like I have a lot to lose.”

xxx

The first thing she learns about Tsing is that the woman is _neat_. Everything she does is calculated, ordered, carefully handled—even her clothes are completely on point, right down to her five-inch heels.

The second thing Clarke learns is that she scares easily.

“Wha—what are you doing here?” she stutters, falling back against her desk, her eyes wide as she stares at Clarke (or Sky Princess). “The police are after you.”

“What’s Red?”

“I don’t know what you—” Clarke advances slowly, tilting her head to one side.

“I’ll ask again. What’s Red?”

“A drug!”

“ _Obviously_. What kind?” She swallows audibly, not looking like she is in a hurry to answer, though that changes quickly when Clarke takes another step forward.

“Recreational. It’s recreational.”

“What are you and Wallace doing with it?”

“Nothing! It’s just research into the addictive properties of heroin—”

“—I don’t like _liars_ , Dr. Tsing,” Clarke says lowly, glaring at the woman. “I want to know _everything_.”

“I’m not lying! It started out as research, I _swear_ ,” she adds when Clarke just gives her a disbelieving look. “But then we synthesized Red on accident. And it was nearly a hundred times more addictive than heroin, with a very high lethal dose.”

“So?” Tsing looks at her blankly, like she just missed the point.

“We created a highly addictive drug that isn’t likely to kill the user. It’s worth a fortune.”

“That’s a _lie_. You’re testing it on the people of this city, and they’re dying.” Tsing shakes her head frantically.

“We needed human subjects, yes. And we had… _setbacks_ , but—”

“—I wouldn’t call killing innocent people _setback_ , Dr. Tsing.”

“I know, I understand—”

“Why? Why are you doing this? Why do you need to aerosolize Red?” The blank look returns, except this time there’s a bit of incredulity as well, as if she’s annoyed by Clarke’s dullness.

“Money,” she states simply, as if she needed no other explanation. “And imagine when everyone, from the police commissioner to the journalists who investigate us, is addicted to a drug only _we_ can provide.”

“Where’s Red? Where’s the device?” Clarke demands, grabbing Tsing by the collar of her shirt, but the doctor is grinning.

“Sorry Sky Princess, time’s up.” Suddenly, Clarke realizes that the falling back, cowering against her desk, was all a ploy—she’d hit an alarm, and Clarke, so focused on getting the woman to talk, hadn’t even _noticed_.

Cursing, Clarke releases the doctor and shoots out the window, hearing the distant blares of the alarms, hearing Tsing ask hurriedly, “Did you get it? Did you get the photo?”

xxx

She’s on the front page.

The picture is slightly blurry, but there’s no mistaking it: Sky Princess holding well-respected Doctor Lorelei Tsing by the collar in her own office, a furious and heated expression on her face. If there’d been anyone who believed Sky Princess was innocent before, there wouldn’t be anyone left now. She tosses the paper down, walking to work with her head held down, feeling paranoid that someone would recognize her from the photo.

When she gets to the Daily Planet, Lexa is waiting by the doors, her expression utterly blank (and Clarke has known Lexa long enough to know that that is _not_ good). She follows the reporter silently, not altogether surprised when they find themselves on the roof again, the wind howling in their ears, throwing Lexa’s hair into disarray.

“What did you do, Clarke?” she asks tiredly, looking like she’d been up all night. “Tsing says you threatened her.”

“I just talked to her.”

“That’s not what the photo says.”

“Look, Lexa, forget the photo. It’s the Gala—”

“Clarke—”

“—we have to make sure it’s cancelled or something. They’re planning—”

“Clarke—”

“—the device has to be somewhere in that—”

“Clarke!” She finally falls silent, frowning at the way Lexa is looking at her. “Just stop.” She takes a few steps forward, but Clarke has never felt so utterly _distant_ from Lexa as she does right now. “There’s a warrant for your arrest. There’re a million conspiracy theories popping up, about who you are and where you’ve come from. Wallace turned you into a pariah, Clarke.”

“Don’t you get it? _I_ _don’t care_. He’s planning on using Red on everyone who attends the Gala, I have to stop him.”

“If you even come near the Gala, he’s going to—” She cuts herself off abruptly, and Clarke rolls her eyes, crossing her arms over her chest.

“He’s going to what? He can’t hurt me.” Lexa looks down, then clenches her fists, straightens subtly (as if steeling herself for something), then looks back up, meeting Clarke’s gaze accusingly.

“You’re a _liar_ , Clarke. I was with Raven and Octavia last night, and Raven said you got sick while she was with you, searching through that crate.” She leans forward, her eyes dark. “You don’t get sick.”

“Lexa—” Clarke begins, uncrossing her arms and reaching out for the reporter, hurt when Lexa steps away.

“You lied to me. And if you lied about that, then…”

“What? You think I made this all up?”

“What am I supposed to think, Clarke? Is it more likely that you’re lying again or that Wallace is somehow trying to get rid of every single person in Polis in a position of power?” She shakes her head, her eyes full of tears. “He’s a shrewd businessman, a complete creep, but he’s not a killer.”

“You know me, Lexa. You _do_ ,” she stresses when Lexa shakes her head disbelievingly. “You have to trust me on this. You can’t go to the Gala.”

“You’ve been lying to me since the day we met, Clarke. So no, I can’t trust you. I won’t.” She frowns slightly. “You’ll have to earn it back. Promise me, promise me that everything you do from this point on will be _within_ the law. Promise me.” Clarke stares at Lexa for only a moment before nodding, not even bothering to think it through.

“Okay, okay. I promise.”

**Present day…**

“If I were a device meant to aerosolize a highly addictive drug, where would I hide?” Clarke looks through the walls as she mutters to herself, feeling uncomfortable in her dress.

“What was that?” Bellamy asks.

“Nothing. Just…pretend you’re happy.” He rolls his eyes, holding out his arm for her.

“Am I happy that my co-worker basically forced me to drop my date and take her to the Gala instead? No, I’m not happy.”

“This is work, Blake.”

“Oh yeah, Octavia told me about your theory. Who’s the source, Griffin?” he asks as the police commissioner and Marcus Kane walk by, deep in conversation. Clarke, still looking through the walls and vents, takes her time in answering him.

“If I told you, you wouldn’t want to help me anymore.”

“So it _is_ Sky Princess.” Clarke blinks, turning to look at Bellamy in shock. “What? You think it’s some big secret you’re close to her? I don’t think anyone supports her as much as you and Woods do.”

“Unfortunately, Lexa is not Sky Princess’s biggest fan right now.”

“Ah, explains why you’re here with me rather than her. Trouble in paradise, Griffin?” When Clarke just glares at him, he laughs, elbowing her good-naturedly. “Maybe she’s jealous of your love for Sky Princess?” Clarke snorts, shaking her head.

“I wish it were that simple,” she says, and that’s when she spots it—in the very center of the room, the colorful gems of all shapes and sizes are on display, and beneath that, there is a vent, a large metal contraption resembling the drawing Raven gave her of the device. “I’ll be right back,” she tells Bellamy hurriedly, rushing away, weaving between people, muttering insincere apologizes as she heads towards the jewels. In the blink of an eye, Clarke Griffin the reporter is gone, and in her place is Sky Princess, people crying out as they point to her.

“Commissioner, she’s right there!” Wallace yells from a distance away, but Clarke pays him no heed. She reaches the gems and is about to reach through the vent and pull out the device when she feels clammy and weak, all her strength leaving her.

“It’s Sky Princess! Someone get her!” Groaning, Clarke ignores the green gem, focusing her attention on the device. It takes several tugs, but she finally manages to pull away the metal vent, revealing the device. It is at that moment that several things happen at once: Someone pulls the fire alarm, people begin running about as the sprinklers turn on, a gun goes off, Wallace stares wide-eyed at Clarke for a moment before running in the opposite direction, and Clarke is suddenly aware of a sharp, terrible pain in her chest. She looks down, shocked to see blood.

She’s aware of falling, falling to the ground, water raining down on her face, and of a voice—a soft, gentle voice she recognizes, sounding more broken than she’d ever heard it: “You’re going to be okay. You’re going to be okay.”

And then everything is dark.

**Superman, the FINAL PART**

“You’re going to be okay. You’re going to be okay.”

_“And how else would I use my powers?”_

_“I don’t know, take over the world?”_

_“Yeah, but I don’t want the world.”_

_“What do you want?”_

_“What everyone else wants, I guess. To be happy.”_

“Goddammit, how am I supposed to start a line if I can’t even puncture her skin?” She hears an incessant beeping, the continued complaints of a doctor, the bustling of frantic nurses.

_“Are you not happy?”_

_“I’m content. And for now that’s good enough.”_

“You’re going to be okay,” the voice says, the soft, gentle voice. “You’re going to be okay, you hear me?” She feels someone take her hand, squeezing it, speaking in hushed tones with someone else.

“ _What would it take for you to be happy?”_

_“I don’t know. I guess…I want to belong. You know?”_

_“To be accepted?”_

_“Yeah, but more than that. I want to feel like there’s a point. To feel…complete, whole.”_

“Clarke,” the voice whispers in her ear. “Clarke, please be okay. _Please_. I need you to be okay.” She wants to tell the voice that it’s all right, that a bullet can’t hurt her, but she can’t speak, she can’t move, and as it turns out—in the presence of a strange green gem—she _can_ be hurt by bullets. She drifts instead…

…only to wake much later, feeling something heavy on her arm, the room dark, the beeping silenced.

“Where am I?” she asks aloud, moving her hand. The ‘something heavy’ on her arm turns out to be a head, and the person it belongs to stirs, sitting up blearily.

“God, my neck,” the person says, the person with _the voice_ , and Clarke reaches out for her.

“Lexa?” It’s as if the one word is a shot of caffeine, because Lexa jumps up immediately, flipping on the lights before rushing back to Clarke’s bedside, her hair a mess, her eyes rimmed red, cheeks stained with tears.

“You’re awake. Oh, you’re _awake_.” She smiles then, reaching out to smooth back Clarke’s hair, a tender expression on her face. “You’re awake,” she repeats, as if she can’t quite believe it.

“What happened?”

“You were shot.” Clarke laughs, feeling a slight twinge of pain in her chest, remnants she supposes of the gunshot. “I saw you rush towards the gems, so I assumed you must’ve found the device.” There’s no reproach in her tone though Clarke did exactly what Lexa had asked her not to do, and Clarke wonders if perhaps Lexa just didn’t care. “I pulled the fire alarm, thinking it’d be best to get people out, but then there was a shot, and you were bleeding, and…” she trails off, her eyes on the ceiling. “You were unresponsive. A surgeon managed to get the bullet out, but they couldn’t cut through your skin to repair any damage, so they just sort of…taped you up and hoped for the best. And you…you were unresponsive.”

“Wallace?”

“He got away.”

“He’ll come looking for me, you know. He saw me get shot. He knows I can be hurt.” Something passes over Lexa’s face, but before Clarke can make sense of it, it’s gone.

“Then we get you out of here. Keep you away from him.” Clarke shakes her head.

“Actually, I have a better idea. Do you think you can get Octavia to do something without asking any questions?” Lexa snorts.

“Of course. She owes me at least a dozen favors. What do you need?” Clarke sits up, feeling a twinge of pain in her chest, fighting off the urge to rub it and add to the worry in Lexa’s eyes.

“Well, first, can you help me get dressed and get out of here?” Lexa frowns.

“You’re injured.”

“I’m fine.” The frown morphs into a disappointed look, but she nods.

“Fine,” she says, the single word sounding a tad harsh. “What about Octavia?”

“Convince her to post an officer in front of an empty room.”

“You want to trick Cage into coming here?” She bites her lip, giving Clarke an unreadable look. “I don’t even know your plan yet, but I don’t like it. Because it sounds like you want to use yourself as bait.”

“I was thinking incentive, but yeah, bait’s a good word too.”

“Clarke.”

“What?”

“Don’t be stupid.”

“Do you trust me?” Lexa purses her lips, swallowing hard.

“Are you keeping anymore secrets?” Clarke blinks a few times, thinking.

“I cheated on a spelling test in fourth grade. In college, I told a girl that I wasn’t into girls when she asked me out. She just, she had this terrible laugh—it was like a guffaw, you know? Hacking sort of sound. I came to Polis because I wanted to work with you, because I’d heard incredible things—” She’s cut off when Lexa leans forward, pressing her lips to Clarke’s, the action sweet, gentle, taking Clarke totally by surprise.

“I trust you,” she says quietly as she pulls away, her eyes alight with amusement and fondness. “But, God, you’re such a dork.”

“So I’m forgiven?”

“Yeah,” Lexa says, chuckling, tangling her fingers in Clarke’s hair. “But no more lying. Not to me.”

“Okay.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

xxx

“There’s been no sign of Wallace as of yet,” Octavia tells the reporters, her hair pulled back in a bun, looking professional in her shirt and slacks, her badge hanging from her neck. “We believe he intended to use the device found in the ballroom to release the new street drug, Red, into the air. We’re not quite sure why he would do such a thing yet, but thankfully, he was unsuccessful.”

“Is it true that it was thanks to Sky Princess, the one the police department branded a menace?” one reporter asks, causing Lexa to laugh from where she sits. Octavia takes a visibly deep breath, and there’s no way anyone wouldn’t notice the annoyance dripping off her, even through a television screen. Bellamy chuckles lightly, walking away from the television they’re all huddled around, and answers the phone that hasn’t stopped ringing since the events of the previous night.

“Yes, Sky Princess did uncover the plans. We are very grateful for her help.”

“Is she all right?”

“I can’t comment on her condition—”

“So it’s true that she took a bullet to the chest?” Octavia swallows, and Lexa’s smile—wide throughout most of the interview—now slips off her face entirely.

“Yes, she did take a bullet to the chest. I can say that she’s still alive, though in critical condition, and everyone here at the station wants nothing more than for her to pull through. We owe her a great debt.” There’s a flurry of clicks from cameras, reporters all shouting questions at once, but Octavia just shakes her head, indicating the press conference is over. The program cuts off and the newscaster asks for a weather update.

“Thanks, Megan. Well, Polis, it’s a hot one—” Bellamy clicks off the television, a serious expression on his face.

“So she was right,” he says, clearing his throat awkwardly before continuing. “The lab from the police station just called, the gems were all Red. The problem is, there’s two missing.”

“He must’ve grabbed them when he ran,” Miller mutters, shaking his head.

“Probably. Thanks to Clarke’s pictures, we know that we’re missing a blue one, small, and a green one, about the size of my fist.” He shrugs, not looking over at Lexa, who’s paled considerably. “Who knows why he’d choose those two specifically. Maybe they were the ones closest to him, maybe he liked the colors. Either way, he has enough Red to make millions. He could sell it, get out of the country, start fresh somewhere else.”

“He won’t do that,” Lexa says, finally joining the conversation.

“We all know your theory, Lexa, but he’s not _stupid_. Why would he go after Sky Princess now?” Bellamy doesn’t speak up, but it’s clear he agrees with Miller’s assessment. Lexa just rolls her eyes.

“Because Sky Princess is weak right now, and Cage Wallace is _angry_. He’ll go after her.” There’s a pause, and then Bellamy turns, his eyes narrowed.

“You were right about everything else, Clarke. What do you think?” Clarke meets Lexa’s eyes, smiling slightly, quelling the urge to rub the spot where she’d been shot.

“Octavia’s already on it. There’s an officer in front of Sky Princess’s hospital room door.”

xxx

“Are you sure this is legal?” Raven asks, giving Clarke a suspicious glance before returning to her work.

“Yeah, sure. Cleared it with Octavia.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“Nope, I didn’t”

“I’m going to get arrested because of a nosy reporter.” Clarke looks up, vaguely offended.

“First of all, I’m an _investigative_ reporter—”

“—which is a nice way of saying _nosy_ —”

“—and second of all, you agreed to this. You were _excited_ for this.” Raven pushes the files in front of her away, walking out from behind Cage Wallace’s desk to stand next to Clarke and the enormous filing cabinet she was studiously going through.

“You never mentioned paperwork. Or breaking and entering.”

“Minor details.”

“Won’t be so minor when Octavia finds out.”

“Are you going to talk the entire time or are you going to help?” Raven throws her hands up in the air, sighing theatrically.

“You called me because I was the only one willing to break the law, right?”

“I called you because everyone else is busy.”

“I don’t like you, Clarke Griffin.”

“I don’t need you to like me, I need help finding out more about that stupid green gem.” Raven nods sagely, returning to her spot behind the desk, rifling through the papers strewn haphazardly about. It was obvious that Cage Wallace had been here, grabbing any incriminating files before finding some hole to hide in, but Clarke cared less about shady business deals and more about where the businessman had found the green gem and how.

“This is for Sky Princess, yeah?” Raven asks after a moment of silence, making Clarke look up in shock. There’s an undercurrent of seriousness to Raven’s tone, one that was missing before, and Clarke suddenly wishes the engineer wasn’t so smart.

“Raven, listen—”

“I’m not stupid, Clarke. I was there when you collapsed, and I heard about how with the _little_ time he had, Wallace chose that _specific_ rock. It’s the fucking scientific method. You observe a phenomenon,” she says, walking back over to Clarke. “You formulate a testable hypothesis.” She stops when she’s barely an inch away, her eyes boring into Clarke’s. “And then you experiment.” She moves and Clarke watches as Raven’s fist flies towards her face. When it lands, Raven immediately steps back, cradling her hand. “Aw shit,” she cries, though there’s a grin on her face. “Fuck, I was right. _You’re_ Sky Princess.” She laughs a little, and then looks at her hand. “Holy shit, _ow_ , you’re like a goddamn rock.”

“You can’t tell anyone, Raven.”

“Tell anyone? Are you fucking kidding me? If I told people then they’d ask you to do stuff and that’ll seriously cut into the time you have to do stuff for me.” Clarke narrows her eyes, and Raven laughs, flexing her fingers experimentally. “Don’t look at me like that. I was joking.” She moans, flexing her fingers again, letting out a few choice curses. “You know, mostly.” Before Clarke can say anything else, Raven points to the desk with her uninjured hand. “The green gem is called kryptonite. Some archaeologist dug it up in South America about twenty-five years ago. Weird, right? That’s about how old you are.”

“Shut up, Raven,” Clarke mutters as she picks up the papers, skimming through them.

“Hate my genius, if you must. But dear god, take me to the doctor, I punched a freaking brick wall.”

xxx

“No, you can’t be in there with him if there’s no way to protect yourself from the kryptonite.” They’re sitting together on the roof, sharing a sandwich, Clarke’s attention more on the streets below them than on the woman across from her.

“Then what should I do?”

“Take Octavia. Or any other officer.”

“He’ll wait for a moment that I’m alone, you know that. We need to draw him out, not scare him into hiding even deeper into his hole.” Lexa doesn’t respond, so Clarke mentions the first thing on her mind. “I broke Raven’s hand.”

“What?”

“She punched me. She has a broken middle finger. Told me it was karma’s way of saying ‘fuck you.’”

“Why did she punch you?”

“She figured it out, Lexa.” She sighs, turning to look at Lexa with a frown on her face. “How is my secret a secret if it literally takes people two seconds to figure out it’s me?” Lexa laughs, rolling her eyes.

“It’s not exactly rocket science. I told you already, anyone paying even a little bit of attention to Clarke Griffin could tell—you can’t hide your dorkiness.” Clarke’s frown deepens, but when Lexa grins at her, she finds herself fighting a smile.

“I’m being serious.”

“So am I.”

“You realize I have to do this, right?” she asks, suddenly serious. “Wallace has to be left to me.”

“Clarke—”

“I’m serious, Lexa. Only Sky Princess can handle this.” Lexa swallows, turning away, her eyes on the cars honking below them, the bustling streets, the people milling about unaware of how close they’d gotten to having a highly addictive drug unleashed, changing their lives forever.

“You’re Clarke,” she says softly, pursing her lips. “You’re Clarke Griffin, the nerd in the cubicle next to mine. You’re Clarke.”

“I know. I’m the dork who’s also Sky Princess.” Lexa shakes her head and gives Clarke a sad smile.

“No, that doesn’t matter to me. Because what you can do, that’s all you. But the name, the superhero persona, I gave that to you, and Clarke, you never needed it. Does that make sense?” For a whole minute, Clarke doesn’t respond—doesn’t know _how_ to respond. But then, she looks away, rubbing the back of her neck, feeling uncomfortable.

“It’s you. You know? What makes me happy.” Lexa doesn’t smile, but her eyes soften, her expression so different from the usual glare and frown she sported that Clarke momentarily doesn’t even recognize her. But then Lexa shifts slightly so that their shoulders are pressed together and leans on Clarke, her hair tickling Clarke’s neck, and Clarke can smell her shampoo, can feel her heart beat, and the confusion passes.

“God, Clarke,” she says, her tone light, but the grasp on Clarke’s fingers tight. “You’re such a nerd.”

xxx

The officer at the door is on his lunch break, the one sent to replace him detained by a particularly chatty brunette two floors down. And Clarke, Clarke is just waiting, sitting on the chair by the bed, for the first time uncomfortable in the red and blue suit, uncomfortable without her glasses. She doesn’t even bother looking up when the door opens.

“I told you,” he says without preamble. “I told you I wasn’t a good enemy to make.” Clarke looks up slowly, sighing when she sees him. His hair—once immaculately gelled back—is messy and in a disarray. His clothes are dirty, one of his shoes scuffed and muddy. He looks like he’s been through hell.

“What did you think would happen, Wallace?” she asks, raising her eyebrows. Cage Wallace steps forward. “Did you think I’d just let it go? Did you think you could discredit me enough that I’d give up?”

“They said bullets didn’t hurt you, and I had to come up with something.” His lips curl into a sneer, his hand moving to his right pocket. “What’s funny is you could’ve gotten away. Just left once you realized I won. But no, you _had_ to be a hero.”

“Is this you winning, Wallace?” She looks at him, frowning. “For a winner, you look terrible.”

“You know what they’re going to find, Sky Princess? They’re going to find that Red Enterprises funded research at Weather Pharmaceuticals. They’re going to find emails between Tsing and the drug dealer the police commissioner has been so _desperate_ to find. They’re going to discover that it was an elaborate plot to get this new drug out into the streets, and that they used _you_ in order to make sure it worked.” He lets out a laugh. “I can see the headlines now: Sky Princess, the _hero_ of Polis, bought off by drug dealers. Sky Princess, the _hero_ of Polis, is actually just a thug, and she’s actually just dead.”

“You think you’re going to kill me?”

“Kryptonite,” he says, and he pulls out the gem from his pocket. If Clarke hadn’t been sitting down, she thought her legs would give way. “It’s just a rock to me, but to you, to you it hurts, doesn’t it?” He takes several steps closer, and then, with a grin, he presses the cool surface of the rock to Clarke’s forehead. She slumps forward, and Cage pushes her out of the chair, leaving her sprawled out on the ground. “When you showed up at the Gala, I thought I was done for. You’d found the device, the police seemed to be hesitating which meant at least some of them still trusted you, but then, I saw it. You looked _worried_ about this rock.” He raises the kryptonite slightly, staring at it with awe. “And then one of the officers took a shot at you—” Clarke groans, making a mental note to have a word with Octavia “—and there was blood, and I _knew_ , I _knew_ , I needed to get this gem.” He drops his hand and kicks her hard in the middle, and all Clarke can do is lay there, alone and too weak to defend herself.

“I won’t let you win.”

“But I already _have_ ,” he says, laughing and kicking her again. “Sold the last of the Red I had, I’ll kill you, and I’ll get away, disappear while things settle down and return a hero—after all, I’d been framed, remember?”

“No one will believe you.”

“I don’t need _belief_. Belief is for you, the _hero_ of Polis. Because people believe in you, don’t they? Trust you, like you, whatever. But me? All I need is for them to _buy it_.” He kicks her again, this time cracking her lower ribs. “You’re alone, you’re weak, and soon, you’ll be dead.” He reaches into his pocket a second time, the kryptonite in his right hand, a gun in his left. “Don’t worry, Sky Princess, I’ll keep Polis safe.” He raises the gun, his finger is pulling the trigger, and Clarke waits, unable to move, wishing she’d at least said goodbye to Lexa—wishing she hadn’t lied to her and promised she’d be all right. Clarke waits, closing her eyes, and waits for the gun to fire, for the pain to erupt, for the bleeding to start. Except, when the gun does finally fire, she feels nothing. She opens her eyes to see a brunette struggling with Wallace, trying to get the gun out of his hand. She opens her eyes to see _Lexa_ , Lexa who was supposed to be two floors down, who was never supposed to be here, who was putting herself in danger because Clarke was too weak to handle this on her own—too slow to figure out Cage Wallace’s plans, too blind, too dumb, too weak, too _helpless_.

The gun fires again, this time somewhere above Clarke’s head, and she hears Lexa let out a cry—of worry, of pain, of fear, she’s not quite sure—and her heart hammers away in her chest, sweat drips down her nose, fear and panic taking a strong hold of her.

“No,” she mutters, watching as Lexa continues to struggle with Wallace, watching as she knees him hard in the stomach, watching as she finally manages to wrest the gun out of his grasp, the weapon clattering to the floor and sliding under the bed. “No,” she says again, pushing herself up on shaky arms, ignoring the pain blossoming each time she takes a breath, each time she dared to move. She watches with horror as Wallace and Lexa both run for the gun, watches as Wallace reaches it, holds it up, aims, his finger on the trigger. “ _No_ ,” she says once more, somehow managing to get to her feet and pushing Lexa out of the way. She feels the bullet go straight through her shoulder, feels the pain erupt the blood gush out of the wound, but more important is that she sees Wallace on the ground, cradling his knee.

“Officer Jordan, arrest him, immediately.” Octavia’s welcome voice comes from behind, and Clarke allows her legs to give way. Instead of falling to the ground, however, she feels herself be caught, four strong arms pulling her up. “It’s gonna be okay,” Octavia whispers, but Clarke only has eyes for Lexa, Lexa who is safe, Lexa who saved her life. “We need to get her out of here.”

“I can take her.” They all pause, watching Jasper Jordan cuff Wallace, leading him out of the hospital room, crying out in pain each time his leg moved. Octavia turns back to Clarke and Lexa with a smile before pocketing the kryptonite that Wallace had dropped.

“I’ll make sure this never sees the light of day, Clarke. Don’t worry.”

“We have to go, she needs to be as far away from that gem as possible.” Octavia nods, grinning slightly, and though Clarke opens her mouth to speak—tries to tell Lexa that something is wrong—she feels her head loll to the side, and then everything is dark.

xxx

“I can’t believe you came after me.”

After leaving the hospital, Lexa had helped Clarke home, spent three days taking care of her, not once speaking about what happened at the hospital, only using the phone to fend off Abby and Jake’s concerns and Jaha’s demands for a new story. The TV was kept off, the newspaper ignored. Three days, for _three days_ , they weren’t Clarke Griffin, Sky Princess and Lexa Woods, Investigative Reporter. Instead, they were Clarke and Lexa, sitting on the couch their feet kicked up on the table, eating ice cream straight out of its container. For three days, life was simple, but then Clarke couldn’t handle it anymore.

“It was a stupid plan. You’re not a martyr.” Lexa’s words are harsh, clipped, her anger aimed at herself rather than Clarke. She swallows another spoonful of ice cream, looking determined to end the conversation here.

“I wasn’t _planning_ on dying,” Clarke muttered, unable to help herself.

“No, you just went into a situation knowing it was very likely you _would_ get yourself killed.”

“But I didn’t.”

“Because I was there. And Octavia was there.” At the mention of Octavia, Clarke lets her head fall back, letting out a long-suffering sigh.

“I still can’t believe she figured it out. You, Raven, Octavia…dammit. I can’t even keep my secret identity a secret.” Lexa chuckles, almost despite herself, and she leans forward to put the empty ice cream container on the table before curling up next to Clarke, her legs folded beneath her.

“Don’t worry, I think she’s impressed by you. She was the one who told me about your stupid ‘camera in the room’ idea.”

“It worked didn’t it?” Clarke asks, taking one of Lexa’s hands in her own, playing with her fingers.

“Yeah, it did,” Lexa says softly, and when Clarke looks up to meet her eyes, she finds she has nothing to say to the worry, concern, _fear_ that she sees shining in the green. So instead, she pulls Lexa forward, tasting the ice cream on her lips, wanting nothing more than to kiss away the doubts and fears. And when Lexa kisses her back, moving so that she’s straddling Clarke, her fingers brushing lightly over the painless scar on her shoulder, Clarke thinks she might have succeeded.

And it’s all she ever wanted, really.

**Sky Princess Exposes Cage Wallace**

**By LEXA WOODS**

_Investigative Reporter_

Shortly after midnight, mere days after the Gala shooting, Cage Wallace was spotted at Polis General Hospital, sneaking into the room of Sky Princess, who was there recovering. Octavia Blake, the detective assigned to Wallace’s case, claimed that they expected it.

“We had a tip. We set up guards and cameras, to be sure we could keep Sky Princess safe,” she said, not commenting further on the tip. “Our priority was to stop Wallace.”

Though the entire attempted attack was caught on camera, Blake claims it will not be released. “It went into evidence, and that’s where it’ll stay,” she said.

Wallace, who has been charged with drug conspiracy, attempted murder, possession and the intent to distribute, had no comment, but his lawyer, Carl Emerson, released a statement earlier this morning describing his client’s intent to fight the “egregious and outlandish charges.”

“They can fight it, but the evidence is overwhelming. We’ve got people lined up, willing to testify against him,” Blake said, declining to elaborate.

Sky Princess was unavailable for comment, though she was spotted stopping a car robbery mere hours after the attempt on her life. In any event, it seems that Sky Princess is here to stay, something that the police department is thankful for.

“Listen, if an entire city turned on me I don’t think I’d stick around and keep helping it,” Blake said. “Polis is lucky to have her. She’s a super girl.”


	14. bleed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact: I'm kinda proud of this fic I dunno it's a weird feeling

She is six when she bleeds for the first time.

She doesn't remember how it happens, just that the large gash is on her palm, and she is covered in mud. That is why it takes so long for anyone to notice; the thick black liquid blends easily with the thick black mud. But then their village leader wraps her hand almost reverently, not giving her the lecture and stern words she expects, and the next thing she knows, she is being torn from her mother's arms, her father's cries ringing in her ears.

When she complains, fights, tries to escape back to them, she is shot down. _You are a Nightblood_ , they tell her. She is leaving for Polis, where she will be trained to be the next Commander. _You have no family_ , they tell her. (She never sees her parents again.)

//

She is seven when she bleeds in punishment.

Of the nine or so Nightbloods (a small group, she hears warriors mutter when they pass, bad omen), she is very clearly the worst. (This she learns when they get together and train once a week, away from their mentors.) She is bad with a sword, worse still in her studies, consumed with thoughts of home and a deep aching longing in her chest of escape. They assign her a new teacher, a young woman, and she is told she must improve.

The young woman tells her if she does not, she will die.

With an easy flick of her wrist with her knife, the young woman nicks the skin at her neck, causing a pebble of black blood to seep out, a deep contrast to the paleness of her skin. "Do you want to live, _Leksa kom Trikru_?" she asks, raising her eyebrows imperiously.

"Yes," she answers quietly, marveling that her mentor even hears her. The young woman nods in approval, her eyes focused on Lexa with a mixture of pity and indifference, the feelings clearly warring within her.

"The past is in the past. Look ahead. Now pick up your sword." (The indifference wins out.)

(She does as she is told, and though hours later she is covered with small cuts and bruises, aching all over, she allows a smile at her lips, content with the knowledge that she managed to disarm her mentor at the very end.)

//

She is eight when she bleeds (for the first time, just the first time) for her people.

She has not met the commander, does not know who she is, but she hears stories, hears about the great and legendary battles she has won. She has not met the commander, but she is intuitively frightened of her, and Anya tells her this is good.

“You are her successor,” she says, head held high. She never mentions the other Nightbloods, and Lexa know why: she wants Lexa to feel different, _special_ , because she has seen something in Lexa that she calls “different.” She never mentions the others because she truly believes the others do not stand a chance.

(This is not a belief Lexa shares, but she chooses to remain silent on the matter.)

“Is that why I must fight?”

“You show the most promise. This is a test, Lexa. Do not let your _heda_ down, your _people_ down.” Lexa swallows hard, nods carefully, and refuses to meet her mentor’s eyes. Instead, she looks over to the side, where she sees a woman seated at an enormous chair, her eyes on the boy Lexa is to fight. Beside the woman stands Titus, a slightly anxious expression on his face as he stares first at the boy and then at Lexa, their eyes meeting just briefly.

“It is not yet time for the Conclave,” Lexa mutters, fingering her sword. “The Commander looks healthy, why am I fighting another Nightblood?”

“Do you question your Commander?” Anya asks, her eyebrows rising, something indecipherable in her eyes. She kneels down, looking at Lexa carefully.

“No. No, I do not.”

“Good. Now go, Lexa. Show your Commander your strength, this will be easy for you.” But Anya has more faith in Lexa than she deserves, because the other Nightblood’s blade slices through her flesh more than once, drawing blood, and it takes more than a little effort for her to finally bring the boy to his knees.

(He is dragged away, and Lexa watches in horror as he is knocked out roughly with a blow to the head, black blood running down his temple, his eyes fluttering to a close.)

(Later, she learns, he committed treason: he plotted against the Commander. Later, she learns, _jus drein jus daun_. Later, she learns, he is dead—just like she would be had she not won the fight.)

(Later, when a healer is tending to her wounds, Anya tells her the truth: he died for his people, and she bled for her people, and that would never change.)

//

She is nine when she bleeds out of carelessness.

The girl is thin and strong and her hair is wild and dark and Lexa cannot look away. She does not understand the thudding in her chest or the heat in her cheeks, but she does know—immediately—that whatever it is, it is a distraction. (And Lexa, she cannot afford distractions.)

Yet, despite this, Lexa continues to watch the girl carry pot after pot of water to a small hut (where a healer worked, where Lexa went in the afternoons to have her wounds treated), and she does not notice Anya coming up behind her, nicking her with her blade.

Lexa lets out a soft gasp, her hand immediately going to where blood began to pool, giving Anya her best glare.

“You can visit the healer’s daughter later,” Anya says, smirking knowingly. “But you have training now, _Leksa kom Trikru_.”

//

She is ten when she bleeds from joy.

Her relationship with Anya has morphed from that of teacher to that of sister, and she knows this because the woman takes her swimming for the first time.

It doesn’t take long for Lexa to get the gist of the exercise, and soon she is paddling around the pond without Anya’s watchful gaze. As her mentor sleeps on the sandy bank, using her arm as a pillow, Lexa remains in the water, floating on her back and staring up at the sky. She is so enraptured by the blue that she forgets herself, and as she struggles to regain her position, her foot scrapes against a loose and jagged rock at the bottom of the pond, and she hisses at the pain and the sight of the dark blood swelling in the water.

But as Anya gets up and rolls her eyes to take a look at her injury and tend to it, Lexa is smiling, though she can’t quite put the _why_ into words, even after Anya asks multiple times.

//

She is eleven when she sheds tears along with blood.

An older warrior, a man named Gustus, arrives in Polis and gives Anya some whispered news in the middle of their training session. It is hot, the sun’s rays are pounding into her back, sweat drips down her neck and face, and it feels like she can barely breathe. But none of that matters when Anya tells her that her family is dead.

(They continue to fight, because that is what she must do, fight through the pain, but she is unfocused suddenly, and the death of parents she barely remembers lead to another scar, another half hour spent with the healer, being bandaged up.)

(They continue to fight, because this is a test, and she must learn to leave the past behind and focus on the present, must learn to ignore the pain that ripples through her.)

(They continue to fight, but tears blur her vision as she thinks of her mother’s warmth and her father’s cries as she dragged her away.)

//

She is twelve when she bleeds for her beliefs.

She sees more and more of Titus, and she isn’t quite sure why. (Nightbloods, despite having darkness bind them, are not connected. Titus is the link between them, the one who monitors their progress from afar as their Commander wages war.)

(Lexa hears whispers that their Commander is foolhardy. She hears murmurs that her warrior spirit will kill them all. She hears rumors that a Conclave is fast approaching.)

“What are the two tenets of the Commander?” Titus asks, walking with her one afternoon. Winter is fast approaching, and each gust of wind sends shivers down Lexa’s spine.

“Wisdom and strength.”

“And which, Lexa, do you think is more important?” The question catches her off guard, breaking the script they normally have. She is used to the quizzing, but the lines and questions have been changed, and she is unsure how to navigate the tenuous waters.

“Wisdom,” she answers after a long pause, coming to a halt in front of a fresh fruit stand, nodding in thanks when she feels the woman behind the stand grab her wrist and press one of her fruits into Lexa’s hand, a soft smile on her face (a sad smile, Lexa realizes some time later—a _pitying_ smile).

“Why wisdom?”

“Strength leads to hasty decisions. Only wisdom ensures victory.” Titus nods slowly and he begins walking, expecting her to follow. She does, though at a slower pace, lagging a few steps behind him, not liking where this is going.

“And if I told you wisdom had its downfalls as well?”

“Then we all die,” Lexa mutters, looking down. It is because she’s not looking where she is going that she runs into a now still Titus’s back, but he gently guides her by the shoulder so that she stands in front of him. There, tied to a massive pole, is the healer—the one who tended to her wounds after training, the one who patted her on the head and offered her smiles, the one who had the dark, curly haired daughter who Lexa could not focus around.

“We all die, Lexa, it is an inevitability,” Titus says softly, his hand still on her shoulder, gently squeezing to offer something (comfort? support? kindness? she wasn’t sure). “And you are right, wisdom is not hasty. But it is more dangerous.” He looks down at her, something in his gaze similar to Anya’s, to Gustus’s, to the woman at the fruit stand. “Wisdom leads to conviction, and conviction is deadly.” He gestures to the healer, and Lexa sees the Commander herself approach him, a sword in her hand. “Your healer was a wise man,” Titus says, his grip tightening infinitesimally. “And in his wisdom, he has seen you are special. But his conviction, his belief, led him to think it is his place to help you escape. Are you jailed, Lexa? Do you see a reason to flee?”

“Please,” Lexa mutters, knowing this is a test (it is always a test). “Please let him go. He has done nothing.”

“Done nothing? He planned your escape. A warrior died because of his negligence. And blood must have blood, Lexa.”

“Take mine. Take mine, it’s worth more.”

“But you are not guilty.”

“The plan was for me.”

“But you were unaware of it.”

“Please. Spare him.”

“And with what do you speak now, Lexa? Your head or your heart? Is this wisdom or strength?” Lexa, whose eyes have drifted over to the healer and the Commander, at the trickle of blood dripping down his fingers and to the ground, forces herself to turn back to Titus.

“It’s both. A Commander rules with both.” Titus studies her for a moment, that look in his eyes intensifying, before he gives a curt nod and two guards step forward and grab her arms. They drag her to the pole, and she watches with relief as the healer is released and she takes his place. Her hands and legs shake as she meets the Commander’s eyes—dark, unforgiving, yet full of understanding.

“You show the most promise, Lexa,” she says, accepting a rag from Titus and wiping down her blade. “You are indeed strong.” She steps forward, pulls up Lexa’s shirt, and she presses her knife against the skin of her stomach, hard enough to draw blood, but not hard enough to cause damage or even much pain. Black blood stains her shirt as the Commander steps back, wiping her knife once more. “But you have much to learn about wisdom.” She sheathes the knife, a small smile playing on her lips. “The wise choice would have been to let him die, you know this.”

“ _Jus drein jus daun_ , it is done.” She has no idea where her courage comes from, but the words are out her mouth before she has a chance to still them. But rather than look upset, the Commander merely laughs.

“Oh yes, Lexa. It is done.”

(It is a test, it is always a test.)

//

She is thirteen when she bleeds for Costia.

The healer who dared attempt to provide for the escape of a Nightblood is banished, but his daughter remains behind, a second to a new healer, remaining in her father’s old home. At first, she avoided Lexa, glaring at her each time their eyes met (as if she blamed Lexa for her father, as if Lexa had not done everything she could, as if Lexa had not saved his life). But then, she changes, and her looks are no longer harsh, but they linger, filling Lexa’s chest with a pleasant warmth.

Soon they begin to talk. It is at once about nothing and everything. She learns that Costia is gentle, that her voice raises in pitch when excited or frightened, that she is passionate, that she is wise and strong and kind. She learns that Costia’s blood flows bright red, learns that she likes to sneak around Polis at night, has found all sorts of interesting people and things that way. She learns that Costia can sing, sing and outshine the very stars and moon and sky.

And so when they are together one morning, out of breath from their running, instinct and _worry_ propel her to shove Costia aside and take the blow meant for her. The gash on her shoulder from the man’s knife is searing, black blood spills onto the street, and the man’s eyes widen as he immediately drops the knife.

“She stole from me, Nightblood,” he says, raising his hands. “I want no trouble.”

“Then _leave,_ ” Lexa hisses, and the man does as he’s told; he’s gone before Costia even gets to her feet, rushing to Lexa and studying her shoulder.

“I didn’t steal,” she protests lightly as she rips the bottom of her shirt, making a makeshift bandage. “I just borrowed.” Her eyes glitter mischievously, and somehow, Lexa cannot help the small smile on her lips.

//

She is fourteen when she bleeds ( _again, always, forever_ ) for her people.

There is war (there is always war). Warriors are dying (so much death). Even the Nightbloods, though children, though protected, though _needed_ , are told to fight. Lexa spends her days and nights with Anya, ambling on, invading their invaders. She is not sure who they fight against, and it does not matter.

War is war.

She learns this in the midst of her first battle, charging alongside Anya. Her mentor does not notice the warrior coming for her, but Lexa does. Training has taught her what to do, taught her the best way to kill, and it is muscle memory. Sure footing, a hard jab to the jaw, a slash of her sword, and the warrior is felled, falling to the ground. It is only as she stands there, suddenly realizing what she has done that she becomes aware of the cut across her forehead, where his weapon had grazed her before she took him down.

(They do not give her a kill mark, as they should. She’s told she may—most likely—will be _heda_. And no back is big enough to carry the kill marks of a _heda_.)

//

She is fifteen when she bleeds for her Commander.

“I am dying, Lexa,” the woman tells her, and Lexa does not ask how she knows. Warriors die honorably, warriors die in battle, and seeing her Commander in bed, wracked by a fever and breathing heavily, leaves Lexa feeling vaguely conflicted and confused. “The Spirit chooses the next _heda_ , but I know, I can tell now. It will be you.”

“How?” Lexa asks, but the Commander ignores her question. Instead, she gestures for Lexa to come closer, and when she does, Lexa is shocked to feel something sharp being swiped against her palm. Blood begins to spill immediately.

“You will make a blood oath with me,” she says, slicing open her own palm. “You will swear you will bring peace. You will do what I could not. Win my wars, Lexa.”

“ _Heda_ —”

“Swear,” she interrupts, holding out her bloody hand. After a moment, Lexa grasps it, nodding quickly.

“I swear, _heda_. I will bring peace.”

“Never forget,” the Commander says as she falls back into her pillows, breathing like she just ran miles. “You must rule with strength _and_ wisdom. Never let one overpower the other. Don’t…” But Lexa never learns what she’s not supposed to do. The Commander falls asleep and never wakes up.

//

She is sixteen when she is bled dry for her people (but she gives, gives willingly as long as they wish to take it).

She undergoes the Conclave, and though she defeats the other Nightbloods, she does not know what happens to them. (Titus tells her not to worry, and Lexa knows—though she pretends not to—that that means the others are dead.)

Being _heda_ was never something she wanted or coveted. And now, as _heda_ , she dislikes it even more. She is unable to sleep at nights, plagued with decisions she made throughout the day. War is always on the horizon, either between the Mountain Men or another clan. Blood is shed everywhere, there is famine, fatigue, drought, suffering. (She belongs to her people, she is supposed to help them, do her best by them, but she _doesn’t_ _know_ _how_.)

She gives and gives, everything—her heart, her soul, her spirit, her strength. But it is not enough. Not enough to end her predecessor’s wars. Not enough to protect her people.

(The night an idea starts to form in her mind, the night she begins to hope and dream, Lexa takes the same hand her Commander sliced through and cuts it again, smearing the blood against her tower’s walls. A promise she makes, to Polis, to her people, to herself.)

(The next day, she meets with her advisors and generals and they begin to plan.)

//

She is seventeen when she bleeds from love.

They find the first Nightblood, a young boy named Aden. He is barely seven, light haired and frail, and Lexa wants nothing more than to prove the ones who bring her to him wrong—to press the tip of her knife to his index finger and find a pinprick of bright red blood. But they are not wrong (it is impossible to fake this, to lie about this) and Titus looks to Lexa, asking what should be done about the boy. (Aden, who seems fascinated with the red shawl she dragged with her; Aden, who smiles when she looks down at him; Aden, who is too pure, too unbroken to be put through the tests she faced.)

“Find him a room here,” she says softly, ignoring Titus’s wide eyes, surprised that she is not sending her Nightblood away like she was sent away. “Aden will be given a mentor, but he will live and train with me as well.”

“ _Heda_ , is this wise?” Titus asks, raising his eyebrows. But Lexa is focused on the young boy, who is now enamored with the way the light shone through the glass. After a short pause, Titus nods and bows low, and he leads Aden away, leaving Lexa alone for the first time. It is all she can do not to collapse in her chair, terrified by her own actions. This is not strength, not wisdom. (And she bleeds, though the wound is not physical. She is rubbed raw, her heart torn into pieces at the thought of what Aden and the others who are found will face—years of loneliness, years of pain, only to end with death or the promise of it.)

(And it is then that Lexa adds a new tenet to being the Commander: Compassion. _Heda_ must have strength, wisdom, _and_ compassion.)

//

She is eighteen when she bleeds from sorrow.

War with the Ice Nation goes poorly, her plans for the Coalition seem to be failing, but amidst it all, she loves. She loves Costia, the healer’s daughter whose singing put the stars to shame, the girl with the dark curly hair who would run through the streets, grasping tightly to Lexa’s hand, giggling all the way. She loves Costia, gives much to Costia, _loses_ Costia.

She bleeds from the pain of it. She is surprised when she looks into the mirror that black blood doesn’t seep out of her very pores, showing a fraction of the carnage that was going on inside her. She bleeds from the unfairness of it. How unfair it was that kind, gentle, strong, _loving_ Costia would suffer when she Lexa, who has brought nothing but pain and destruction and death, was allowed to live.

She bleeds from the shock, the suddenness, and she is left reeling, left flailing in the wake of Costia’s loss. And so she does what is natural, she does what makes sense—she puts up walls, shuts down, cursing the three tenets, cursing the Commander before her, cursing herself.

She has bled, she is bled dry, and she has nothing else to give.

//

She is nineteen when she bleeds for hope.

She moves on with her plans for the Coalition, driven no longer by love or faith, but by a desperate desire to ensure Costia’s death was not in vain, that her death marks the beginnings of change (a better world, a world that would have been perfect with Costia _in_ it).

Aden and the other Nightbloods are intuitive, and they have noticed the change in her over the past year. Where once Aden would smile he now keeps his head down, and Lexa’s heart (even hidden beneath walls and obstacles and buried deep) aches. So when she walks by his room one night and notices the light is on, she stops.

“ _Heda_ suffers,” one girl says (she is new, her name is Liza, sticking out like a sore thumb with her bright red hair, her soft smiles), her tone broken. “We must help her.”

“You have only been here a month,” another girl (Tara, older and harsher, a product of her environment—an environment Lexa had striven to change) snickers. “What would you know of _heda_?”

“She is right,” Aden says suddenly, and it is clear the others respect him, because they fall silent and stare at him. “She is different now, but the best way we can help is by doing as she asks. By training.”

Lexa swallows hard at the surge of guilt that fills her chest at his words. Because this was what she had striven to avoid—she wanted to teach them compassion, she wanted something more for them. Where had she failed? When? ( _Costia,_ a voice in her head replies, one that sounds astonishingly like Nia. _The girl made you weak, and these children make you weak. Leave them._ )

But along with the guilt, Lexa feels something else: a crack. The walls, the guards, the shields, for one moment go down. And without letting herself think about it, she enters Aden’s room, allows the Nightbloods to gather around her, and she listens to their stories, their heartaches, their ideas.

Later, when she is in bed, unable to sleep, she thinks of their faces and her heart bleeds for them. But the pain is good, the pain is the first real thing she has felt in a year, and she begins to hope once more.

//

She is twenty when she bleeds for her Coalition.

Titus stands with Anya and Gustus in the back, their eyes filled with nothing but pride as the leaders of the other twelve clans bow low to her, their Commander. The Ice Queen mutters threats as she bows, but Lexa has seen to it that it is nothing but a threat, so she stares down coldly at the woman.

“We have been at war for far too long,” Lexa says, stepping forward, head held high, a knife gripped tightly in her hand. “We have seen death for far too long. But that changes today.” She brings the knife up, and slices her palm a third time—the same spot her predecessor cut, the same spot she sliced open the night she came up with the idea of the Coalition. Black blood drips to the floor, but she ignores it, instead moving to smear her blood on the forehead of each clan leader. “We are bound by blood. We are bound to each other.” She pauses at Nia, and though Costia flashes before her eyes for a moment, she thinks of Aden, of her people, and she smears Nia’s forehead as well. “You are bound to _me_ ,” she tells the clan leaders, motioning for them to stand. “And the Coalition of the Twelve Clans is formed,” she whispers amid the chants of ‘ _heda! heda! heda!’_

(And that night, for the first time since becoming Commander, she sleeps well, having finally brought an end to war, having finally brought change.)

// 

She is twenty-one when she bleeds for a second chance.

Contrary to what Titus’s knowing looks imply, contrary to what she feels burgeoning and consuming her chest, breaking down the last of the walls Aden and his fellow Nightbloods were unable to, she does not fight for Clarke.

No, she fights for herself, for Costia, for all those who laid down their lives for her Coalition, for her people who supported her—for those who would still die for her.

She fights, she bleeds, in order to restore what was broken by the emergence of a new threat and the elimination of an old one. She bleeds, she suffers, because she knows with Clarke’s help (with Clarke, _by her side_ ) she can bring lasting peace. She fights because Queen Nia has threatened her people for the last time, and Lexa can no longer remain compassionate.

And so, as she teaches the Nightbloods about the three tenets of being Commander, she exercises them.

And when she bleeds, for the first time, it is with pride and satisfaction that she watches the black blood stream from her veins.

 _Yu ste heda_ , she thinks. And _heda_ she remains.


	15. eighty days epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact: you probably should read eighty days if you want this to make sense. also you can definitely tell exactly what undergrad me was learning in class while writing this, it's hilarious

**Day One**

“Honestly, I think it’s too complicated. More trouble than it’s worth, you know?” Raven said, leaning heavily back into her seat, taking a swig of her beer. Anya shrugged, standing by her desire to remain neutral in the matter, while Octavia and Lincoln chattered away to each other about the pros and cons of the idea.

“I want to do it. I’ll just need help,” Lexa argued, her eyes fixed on her oldest friend. Anya was the problem—Raven liked to disagree just to be difficult and Lincoln automatically sided with Octavia (who was already firmly in Lexa’s court). The only one who was still on the fence and actually needed to swayed to Lexa’s line of thinking was Anya.

It was too bad the process of attempting to convince the lawyer was proving to be more difficult than anticipated.

“You don’t even need my help,” Anya said, glaring at Lexa as if she could read her mind. “It’s not like I live in the coffee shop like you do. There’s nothing for me to do.”

“I don’t live here,” Lexa protested, slightly offended, while Raven and Octavia let out identical and simultaneous snorts. “Besides, Clarke is your friend, and this isn’t just about me.”

“I still don’t see the appeal,” Anya muttered, crossing her arms over her chest, struggling to maintain an impassive expression. Lexa nearly grinned, knowing the battle was nearly won. “We’re more like casual acquaintances than friends.”

“She went with you to the doctor. She made you soup!”

“One time thing.”

“She also named a drink after you,” Raven offered, grinning when Anya shot her a scowl.

“Clarke’s named drinks after every random person she meets. I mean, she’d known Lexa a few days before she was making special drinks for her.”

“She doesn’t do that for everybody,” Lexa said, vaguely insulted. She turned to Octavia and Raven. “Does she?” While they shook their heads reassuringly, Anya held up a single finger.

“Clarke has said she hates my habit of stealing your peanut butter.” She ignored Lexa’s muffled agreement and held up a second finger. “She won’t answer my phone calls after midnight anymore—”

“—because you called her after you _broke into_ my apartment and I wasn’t there—”

“— _and_ ,” Anya continued, ignoring Lexa entirely and holding up a third finger, “she’s not remotely scared of me. I find that unacceptable.”

“She’s seen you tackle me to the ground and then giggle, Anya. No one looks scary after that.”

“Your relationship with Anya freaks me out in the best kind of way,” Raven commented, draining the last of her beer and tossing the bottle towards Lincoln. He caught it with a grimace, his usual disappointed frown appearing on his lips.

“You can’t force me to clean up, Raven, I don’t work here anymore.”

“If you can drink free beer, you can help with the clean up.”

“It’s not free, I bought that and I fully expect you all to pay me back, I’m not made of money,” Anya growled, shifting in her seat so that she was staring down Raven.

“Clearly you’ve learned nothing these last three years,” Octavia said, waving a hand. “We take turns buying the beer on beer night, and we all know Lexa’s let you skip your turn twice now.”

“Guys, I really need an answer before Clarke comes back and—”

“—and what?” Clarke asked, her eyes focused on Lexa the second she walked in from the employee entrance, remaining on Lexa as she approached them, snagging a beer from Raven before she settled down on the chair next to Lexa, making sure their arms brushed. “Were you talking about me?”

“Do you really make special drinks for everybody?” Lexa asked, much to Raven’s amusement. “I know about the hot chocolate regular, but I thought naming his drink after his girlfriend was sweet.”

“Ah yes,” Octavia said, nodding seriously. “The Four PM. Popular drink if I remember.”

“You haven’t been gone that long, Octavia,” Clarke said tiredly, rubbing her temples. “You know I’m eventually going to have to invite my new employees to beer night, right?”

“Um no. Harper uses too much vanilla syrup and I’m pretty sure Monroe spends more time out back smoking than wiping down tables. They don’t get an invite till they’re model employees.”

“You were never a model employee,” Lexa pointed out. All she got for butting into the conversation was a scowl. “Though I suppose in comparison you were better.”

“Wow, thanks Lexa. I’ll be sure to remember that vote of confidence when I’m doing you a favor.”

“It’s not a favor, it’s—”

“All right, settle down,” Lincoln said, getting to his feet as Raven and Anya laughed away, remaining the one voice of reason. “Lexa, of course Octavia and I will help. Octavia, stop teasing Lexa, you know how she gets when she’s nervous.”

“Nervous? Why are you nervous?” Clarke asked, head tilted to the side as she studied Lexa. For a moment, Lexa could do nothing but open and close her mouth repeatedly, her common sense gone as she met Clarke’s blue, blue eyes. But then she pulled herself together, and with a deep breath, she took Clarke’s hand and rubbed her thumb over the streaks of paint that Clarke hadn’t managed to wash off.

“They’re going to help me with some writing, that’s all.” Clarke’s eyes remained inquisitive, but she seemed to think better of questioning Lexa any further because she just nodded in acceptance.

“Well. We should be off then,” Octavia said, getting to her feet as well. “Watching Clarke and Lexa stare at each other is gross.”

“Why, because you and Lincoln are any better?” Raven asked, not moving from her seat. Octavia stuck out her tongue, grinning when it just made Raven and Anya roll their eyes simultaneously.

“Thanks for the beer, Lexa,” she said, ignoring Anya’s huff as she waved. “See you dorks next week.” Lincoln smiled apologetically before also saying his goodbyes, the café suddenly much more quiet in their absence.

“Ugh, fine,” Anya said after a long minute of silence, throwing her hands up into the air. “I’ll help you. You don’t have to strongarm me into it.”

“Help you with what?” Clarke asked, now looking more than a little suspicious.

“Just the writing.”

“You want _Anya_ to help you with your writing?” Clarke asked incredulously, eyes wide. Predictably, this made Anya sit up straighter, her expression souring.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she demanded, glaring at Clarke. “I’ll have you know, I’ve known Lexa since we were _kids_.”

“This isn’t a contest—” Lexa tried to interrupt.

“—like hell it isn’t!” Raven interjected, laughing. “Come on, Clarke, you going to just take it like that?”

“Honestly, I think I’ve had enough beer, actually.” Clarke shoved her still mostly full beer towards Raven and got to her feet. Without even bothering to look at Lexa, she flipped her hair and turned on her heel, taking long strides towards the employee entrance and disappearing through the door. Immediately, Lexa glared at Anya and Raven, both of whom studiously looked at anything but her.

“Thanks, really. I’m clearly to a great start.”

“It’s okay,” Raven said bracingly, though she did look a little apologetic. “It’s a good plan. Just a little lame, but that’s on par with you two.” She cleared her throat and smiled just a little too widely for it to be considered entirely genuine. “It’ll all be fine. I’m sure of it.”

//

_I always just wanted to lead a good one. (19)_

//

**Day Five**

“I thought I figured it out yesterday,” Clarke said the second she saw Lexa walk into the café. It was still early enough that the place was mostly empty except for a woman who sat in the far back—near the bulletin board—sipping her coffee and staring idly at her locked phone.

“Figured what out?” Lexa asked, leaning against the counter, watching as Clarke set about making her a cup of coffee.

“The stupid notes.”

“Oh. So you didn’t figure it out?” she asked, feigning disinterest. Clarke snorted, pushing the paper coffee cup towards her, eyes slightly narrowed.

“See, I _know_ it’s you. It _sounds_ like you. But the handwriting keeps changing, and you didn’t even come in yesterday.” She paused, biting her lip as if she was debating whether or not to divulge the next bit of information. “And I watched Raven like a hawk. She never posted the note.”

“So what you’re saying is that you _think_ it’s me, but you don’t know how I’m doing it?”

“What I’m saying is that it’s been three years, Lexa. If you want to say something, I’d imagine you could just say it to me.” Clarke raised her eyebrows, as if waiting for Lexa to confess right there, but instead Lexa just laughed, leaning forward to press a quick kiss to Clarke’s lips. “You’re not as charming as you think you are,” Clarke muttered, her eyes closed as Lexa straightened.

“You don’t think the notes are stupid, do you?” Clarke’s eyes flew open, her cheeks tinged pink.

“Stupidly cheesy,” she said with a cough, looking away. “Not really my cup of tea.” Lexa bit her lip to keep from laughing and nodded seriously.

“Of course.”

Later, Raven texted her to admit that she’d been forced to resort to bribing a teenager who’d come in for a sweet tea to post the note, as she hadn’t been able to ‘escape Clarke’s insanely prying eyes.’ She seemed uncharacteristically apologetic over it, which made Lexa wonder what Raven meant about _bribery_. (Much, much later, Lexa would learn it was less a bribe and more a physical threat.)

//

_But when I met you…when I met you my world turned on its head. (41)_

//

**Day Sixteen**

Clarke was sitting on the couch when she got home, her eyes following Lexa’s movements in the kitchen. She knew—she could tell from the way Clarke was chewing away at her bottom lip—that Clarke had something to say, but rather than give the opening Clarke was waiting for, Lexa sipped her water and rummaged through the fridge, looking for a snack.

“Did Anya steal our peanut butter again?” She made mental note to have a talk with her best friend about boundaries.

“It’s a lost cause,” Clarke said, getting up and approaching Lexa, still watching her oddly. “I told her that us living together means she can’t just bust in whenever she wants anymore.” Clarke paused dramatically, but Lexa didn’t need her to finish—she could imagine exactly what Anya’s response had been to that. “She told me her rights as a best friend extend to busting in whenever she wants for as long as she wants. That the two of you signed a pact.”

“Wow, that was a long time ago. We were kids. I can’t believe she still remembers that.”

“Right? I told her she could have the peanut butter if she just stopped talking.”

“Which is naturally what she wanted,” Lexa grumbled, giving up her search for food now that she knew Anya had already been by for a raid. She settled for sitting on one of the kitchen stools, placing her forehead on the cool counter. After a second, she felt Clarke’s warm hand rub soft circles into her back.

“I know Raven has said this before, but your relationship with Anya is just…weird.” Lexa didn’t answer, she just grunted against the counter, the muffled sound falling somewhere between agreement and a vague ingrained loyalty to stand up for Anya. Clarke continued to rub circles into her back, her hand slipping under Lexa’s shirt after a moment. “Had a bad day?”

“Indra _is_ a she-devil.”

“Wow, that bad?”

“I didn’t even have time for a cigarette break.”

“But you quit.”

“Sure, but I still take the breaks. Walking can clear the mind.”

“Do you regret it? I know you’re only working so hard to help with the café and I—” Lexa sat up so quickly, Clarke cut herself off, her eyes full of worry.

“Business will pick up soon, Clarke. And I’m happy to help you. In any way I can.” Clarke nodded, stepping forward and wrapping her arms around Lexa’s waist, head resting on her shoulder. They didn’t say anything, just remained still—Lexa sitting on the stool and Clarke leaning heavily against her. But it was enough. “How was your day?” she asked after a long silence, suddenly remembering Clarke’s obvious need to say something when she had first walked in. Clarke just held on tighter, burrowing her face into the crook of Lexa’s neck.

“Better now that you’re here.”

//

_I think we all agonize over things we wish we could change and people we wish we could get back. (5)_

//

**Day Twenty-Nine**

“She’s figured it out.”

“She hasn’t.”

“Lexa, she literally caught me posting the note. She yelled, ‘Ah ha!’ Forced me to tell her what the number meant and—”

“You mean she knows it’s a puzzle? So now she knows not to throw away the notes?”

“Yeah, that was embarrassing. I still can’t believe Lincoln dug through the trash for you.”

“I can’t believe the numbers annoyed her so much. It’s not as if I’m asking her to do math, I just want her to be aware they’re not in order. It won’t matter by the end anyway.”

“Well I can’t believe she threw away your love letter…actually, no. I can believe that. Clarke hates math.”

“It’s not even a letter yet, she’s only gotten twenty-nine pieces.”

“And you still won’t let me read it?”

“I haven’t let anyone read it. The only person who gets to read its entirety is Clarke.”

“Not even Anya?”

“Not even her.”

“Right, well. I guess I can let it go then. But I’ll have you know, this entire thing is super gross. I don’t understand why people feel the need to shove their love in other people’s faces.” It was a joke, Lexa knew that, but she smiled as her eyes wandered away from Raven and focused instead on Clarke, who was chatting with one of her customers.

“Because there’s nothing greater than love. Nothing more worth it.” She blinked and took a deep breath, turning back to Raven. “Why not share something beautiful?” After a second, Raven snorted and rolled her eyes, leaning back in her chair.

“I can’t talk to you when you’re like this. You’re impossible.”

//

_I don’t actually know how to express how I feel. (56)_

//

**Day Forty**

“You know,” Clarke said suddenly, her fingers—which had been tracing idle shapes into the back of Lexa’s hand—ceasing their movements, “you could’ve just done it in order. The parts of whatever letter you wrote me.”

“I know.”

“This just seems like more work.”

“It was supposed to throw you off. Make you wonder who was writing it,” Lexa admitted slowly, dragging her eyes away from the movie they’d put on. Clarke shifted on the couch, pressing herself more firmly against Lexa, a mock scowl on her face.

“As if I wouldn’t recognize your writing,” she scoffed, pressing a kiss to Lexa’s cheek, then to her jaw, and finally to her neck. Lexa couldn’t do much more than tilt her head to the side, giving Clarke more room. “So what’s with notes, really?” Clarke asked, her open-mouthed kisses trailing a little lower. Lexa swallowed, not really in much of a mood to talk and knowing exactly what Clarke was doing.

“A few kisses won’t make me spoil this for you, Clarke. The notes are special.”

“Oh, are they?” Clarke’s hand slid under Lexa’s shirt.

“You’ll find out soon enough,” Lexa managed, eyes fluttering shut. Clarke let out a strangled laugh, something caught between desire and amusement, and Lexa knew she’d won.

They didn’t talk much more after that.

//

_I firmly believe that I could live a thousand lifetimes and in each one I’d find my way to you. (42)_

//

**Day Fifty-One**

The coffee shop’s doors were closed, sunlight streaming in from the windows, the palpable absence of the sound of chattering customers, pounding feet, and fluttery laughter making Lexa feel a tad cold in the café that had always contained so much warmth.

Then again, if the café had to be cold during any day of the year, it made sense that it was _this_ day.

Clarke sat at one of the tables, totally immersed in whatever she was sketching, her head bopping up and down to the music she was listening to, headphones hidden by her jacket’s hood. The mug of coffee Lexa had placed in front of Clarke nearly half an hour earlier still sat there, completely untouched. (She tried hard not to take it personally—she knew that Clarke wasn’t aware of _anyone_ today, she wasn’t actively setting out to avoid Lexa. And yet…somehow it still stung.)

She closed her book slowly, unable to really concentrate on the words anyway, and stretched, attempting unsuccessfully to not take a peek at her watch. She knew it was late—she’d gotten here late after all—so knowing the time didn’t really make a difference in her situation.

(What she really wanted to do was gather Clarke in her arms and hold her, promise her that this pain was fleeting, that one day it would barely even twinge. But she knew better. She knew better than to pretend, she knew better than to lie.)

(Pain was a funny thing, permanent in all the wrong ways.)

“You don’t have to stay, you know,” Clarke said suddenly, her voice unnaturally loud in the silent and empty café. She didn’t look up from her sketch. “You can just leave.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Why do you even care, huh?” she demanded, hand wrapping so tightly around her pencil Lexa was sure she would snap it in half. “You didn’t know him. You didn’t love him. He’s nobody to you, so why are you here?” She looked up by the end of her sentence, eyes shining with unshed tears, stance and tone and expression all accusatory and angry.

“I’m here for you,” she said slowly, not in the least bit cowed by Clarke’s fury. (She was familiar with _this_ day. She knew not to take the ice in Clarke’s eyes to heart, knew that the cold wasn’t aimed at her.)

(And yet…the cold still stung.)

“I didn’t ask you to be,” Clarke said, lips turning down into a frown.

“I know. But I want to be.” She wasn’t sure if it was her comment that finally broke down the last of Clarke’s guards or if it was just bone deep weariness, but either way, Clarke’s expression softened and the tears she’d been struggling to hold back rolled down her cheeks.

“I miss him, Lexa,” she said in a soft voice, and Lexa couldn’t take it anymore. Without really thinking about comfort or logistics, Lexa dropped to her knees next to Clarke’s chair and wrapped her arms around her girlfriend, feeling the heavy weight of Clarke’s head drop onto her shoulder.

“I know,” she said, wishing there was something better to say, wishing there was something that could actually help beyond meaningless platitudes. She wished she could somehow take away the pain, but the best she could manage was to dull it for a short moment. “I know,” she repeated, wishing that it could’ve been enough.

//

_I believe, with all my heart, that the greatest thing we can do on this planet is to make the world a little better for someone else. (76)_

//

**Day Sixty-Six**

“…and I swear to whatever you hold dear, I will break one over your head,” Raven threatened, limping over to Harper, fixing the girl with a murderous glare. Lexa, who’d stepped into the café at the tail end of the conversation, grimaced, wondering what could have happened in the few short hours the café had been opened to already ensure Harper faced Raven’s ire.

“She didn’t charge the customers properly again?” Lexa asked as she approached Raven, eyes searching the coffee shop for her girlfriend.

“No, she broke a mug.”

“I think you may have overreacted then.”

“Yeah?” Raven asked, head tilted to the side, genuine concern etched onto her face.

“Just a tad, yeah,” Lexa said with a shrug. “Anyway, where’s—”

“I have no clue where Clarke is and even if I did I wouldn’t tell you,” Raven interrupted, holding her hands up into the air. One of the customers in line tutted impatiently, and Raven turned to glare at Harper until the girl let out a sigh and began taking coffee orders. “Seriously, I’ve no clue, stop badgering me about it.”

“I didn’t—”

“—it’s not like she told me not to tell you that her mom is visiting in a few days, hoping that this time you won’t literally run away.” Dread pooled in Lexa’s stomach even as she shook her head in bewilderment.

“I didn’t run away,” she protested, fingers tapping against her thigh, something Raven observed in interest. “I just…strategically avoided.”

“You stayed with Anya for a weekend to avoid Clarke’s mom, Lexa. Just admit it.”

“She _hates_ me.”

“Now, hate might be an exaggeration. But yeah, she totally dislikes you.”

“Oh no, what am I going to do. She’s visiting _now_? Why _now_?” Before Raven could offer up any unhelpful advice, they were both distracted by Clarke’s approach, her eyes narrowed, her lips pursed.

“You told her?” she accused, glaring at Raven.

“She forced it out of me,” Raven said, shrugging. When Lexa opened her mouth to protest, Raven looked over to Harper and let out a long-suffering sigh. “Well, it looks like Harper screwed something up again. Guess I should go sort that out.” She was gone before anyone else could get in a word edgewise, leaving Lexa to focus her attention on Clarke.

“Your _mother_ is coming?”

“Just for a few days,” she said bracingly, smiling weakly.

“Your mother is coming, and you didn’t think to _warn_ me?”

“You would’ve run away again!”

“Yeah, yeah I would’ve,” Lexa agreed, crossing her arms over her chest, forgetting why she’d come to the café in the first place. “I never spring my family members on you unannounced.”

“Anya is literally always over unannounced,” Clarke pointed out, rolling her eyes. “And besides, my mom has promised to be on her best behavior. Give her a chance.”

“Like she gave me a chance, huh?”

“That was more than two years ago, Lexa. She’s sorry for the things she’s said. She wants to make up for it.”

(Lexa wasn’t quite sure which was worse: the fact that Clarke was able to so easily sway her or the fact that Clarke was fully aware of how easily she was able to sway her.)

“You owe me you know,” Lexa said with a tired sigh. Clarke grinned at her, pulling her forward by the hand and pressing a soft kiss to her lips.

“Free coffee whenever you want.”

“I already get free coffee.”

“Honestly, with the amount of time you spend here,” Raven muttered as she walked by them, a bag of pastries in one hand, a mug of coffee in the other, “it’s a terrible business choice.”

//

_All I can do is remain speechless at the knowledge that I’m not trudging along alone. (62)_

//

**Day Seventy-Nine**

Her tongue was sticking out a little, peeking out from between teeth and lips, her eyes narrowed in concentration. “No, our first date was after the café was back on track. A few weeks after you gave me the last bulletin board post.”

“Seriously? We’ve been through this before. Our first date was at the café, the first night I stayed behind with you.”

“No. No, I knew I liked you but we weren’t dating. You were kind of standoffish, you know.”

“Clarke,” Lexa explained patiently, closing her eyes and counting to ten. “Our first date was before the whole Wallace thing.”

“See, why would you remind me about that? And we were having such a good night,” Clarke complained, twisting in a mock huff, pulling the sheets with her. When Lexa didn’t move, Clarke rolled back to face her, grinning ear to ear. “You know I love you, right?”

“Seriously debating that right now,” Lexa said, but she wrapped her arms around Clarke’s waist and pulled her closer, resting her forehead against Clarke’s temple, pressing soft kisses down Clarke’s jaw.

“Fine, I’ll admit that our first date was before the Wallace thing. Happy?”

“Why do you keep calling it the Wallace thing?”

“Because ‘my girlfriend blackmailed one of the richest men in town’ doesn’t roll off the tongue quite the same way.”

“I still can’t believe Anya told you that. She has no filter, I swear.”

“Anya has spilled a lot of your secrets over the years, Lexa,” Clarke said, pulling back a little so she could meet Lexa’s gaze. “Peanut butter and banana sneeze?”

“I was eleven. And the cafeteria was _dusty_. I didn’t mean to sneeze in the middle of chewing, it just happened.”

“I think it’s gross. And adorable. Adorably gross.” She paused, clearly considering. “Or grossly adorable? I can’t decide.” 

“You’re lucky I love you,” Lexa muttered, pressing a kiss to Clarke’s shoulder. But her lighthearted comment didn’t get the laugh she expected, so she looked up, frowning when she saw the seriousness of Clarke’s gaze.

“Yeah, I know,” was all Clarke said. But it was more than enough.

//

_So Clarke, I’ve got one question for you. (79)_

//

**Day Eighty**

_I think that everyone, at some point in their lives, questions who they are and what their purpose is in a dark, vast universe—a universe that can be cold and unrelenting and terribly harsh. I think we all eventually feel lost, I think we all agonize over things we wish we could change and people we wish we could get back. And I think that none of us ever really come up with satisfactory answers to these questions: We know who we are, but only in relation to others. We can search for years for our purpose, only for our efforts to be proven fruitless. We go over our past with a fine-toothed comb, looking for that one moment, that one phrase or action, that could rewrite history—that would keep us from making a mistake or from walking away from someone. Life is complicated and messy and agonizing, and I don’t know how to fix that. I don’t know if existence precedes essence or if we should all strive towards becoming_ Übermensch _or if we’re all better off embracing nihilism. I’m not a philosopher and I’ve never really been interested in uncovering the secrets to life._

_I always just wanted to lead a good one._

_It never really mattered to me if I never understood who I was, if I never found a purpose, if I could never figure out what went wrong. I agonized over these things, but it was always a given that their answers I could possibly get would be vague at best. What I truly ever wanted—what I felt was the most important thing to strive for—was to make even one person’s life better for having known me. I didn’t need to pursue spiritual freedom or perform heroic acts or embrace a life of hermitage. I just wanted to be relevant enough that somehow, someway, my life and existence was of use to someone else—that at least one person would think of me with nothing but fondness, nothing but affection. I always felt that life was about pouring as much love into the world as you possibly could, hoping that you’d leave it a little more beautiful than it was when you came into it._

_But when I met you…when I met you my world turned on its head._

_I firmly believe that I could live a thousand lifetimes and in each one I’d find my way to you. I don’t know what it is—perhaps an invisible tether, insuring that we never stray too far apart, or perhaps we can’t resist the magnetic pull between us, or perhaps even it’s something as silly and trite as destiny. What I do know is that my life is richer and better for knowing you, but more importantly, it is more beautiful for having loved you. And that is the strangest sensation._

_For so long I wanted nothing more than to make someone else happy, it never occurred to me that a person could do the same for me. For so long I was focused giving away all my love, I didn’t think to imagine that one day someone would return that favor._

_I don’t actually know how to express how I feel. I don’t know how to put into words how grateful I am for you, how happy you have made me. Somehow it feels as if I could string together a thousand sentences in a meager attempt to explain the vastness of what I feel, and it still wouldn’t be nearly enough. All I can do is think that in this cold, dark, unrelenting and terribly harsh universe, I was somehow lucky enough to find you. All I can do is say that I don’t have answers to any of the questions we all eventually face, all I can do is admit that I’m trudging forward in life, just as lost as the next person._

_All I can do is remain speechless at the knowledge that I’m not trudging along alone._

_Life is complicated and messy and agonizing, but each moment with you has turned moments that should have knocked the air out of me into moments that were just breathtaking. Life is hard and at times it seems impossible, but with you there’s an extra vitality to my heartbeat, a warmth that consistently thrums through my veins, even when we’re cold to one another._

_I believe, with all my heart, that the greatest thing we can do on this planet is to make the world a little better for someone else. And each and every day, you’ve made my world better. You have made my world more than beautiful, and all I want is the opportunity to somehow return that favor—every single day, for the rest of our lives._

_So Clarke, I’ve got one question for you._

_//_

“Will you marry me?”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on tumblr @c-optimistic


End file.
